Luetis: The 39th Hunger Games
by Kate-The-Great-And-Powerful
Summary: You will pay. (PARTIAL SYOT CLOSED)
1. Prologue: Timber

_Prologue_

Reaping Day is hell for Timber Rice, in a way that it isn't for most others. Not worse, exactly. But, without a doubt, his is a uniquely unfavorable situation.

Rice does not need to fear that his name will be called; he hasn't worried about that outside of his nightmares for five years. With no family to speak of, the escort can't call any name that would affect him personally. But that isn't the problem. He won't know the kids whose names are called. His worry is that they'll expect to learn something useful from him.

Rice has a spot on the stage, which he earned nearly six years ago by cutting the throat of an eighteen-year-old girl from District Two. The price he paid was dear. On days like today, his hands still feel slick with blood. The victor doesn't look down at them. Part of him knows that they're spotless, as they always are, but another part imagines them stained, crimson to the elbows in gore.

The young victor rubs at his arms as he climbs the steps leading up to the stage, trying to rid himself of that feeling. The blue-skinned escort, a heavyset man with a name lost to time and apathy years ago, bears a luminescent grin as Rice comes up to join him.

"Feeling a chill, Timber?" he chuckles. Rice stops rubbing.

"Of course not. It's the middle of May," he replies tersely, shoving his hands into his pockets so he won't have to think about them. Big Blue keeps smiling, as if the two of them are sharing a private joke. Rice thinks incessantly about peeling the skin off of his blood-soaked arms.

The adolescent population of District Seven has just begun to gather in the center of the square, arranging themselves into rows. Rice sees a handful of faces in the crowd that he recognizes, but no one he can put a name to. In the years since his victory, he's grown more distant from the place he used to call home. Now that he's begun a new life, his homeland looks just as foreign to him as the Capitol once did.

 _Better get rid of that blood. Boil it off. Peel it off. Get it off. Get it off. Get it—_

"Timber? Timber?" The escort's irritating voice throws him off, untangling him from his graphic thoughts.

"What is it?"

"You just don't seem quite right today." Big Blue's smile wavers, and he moves a hand toward Rice's shoulder. The victor gulps in a breath, dark eyes fraught with alarm. "Is something the matter?"

Exhaling with a hiss, Rice jerks out of the way before the escort can touch his arm. "D-dammit!" he barks, "Don't do that!"

Realization seizes the escort's cobalt features. "Oh! I'm terribly sorry, I forgot—"

In that moment, Rice doesn't care if it was the most well-intentioned accident ever to occur. Something inside of him snaps.

"Forget again," the young victor snarls, "and I'll do to you what I did to Shantelle Mason six years ago. I'll cut you up like the overgrown blueberry you are and find out if your blood's the same color. Do you understand me?"

The victor watches the escort's face pale to the color of the sky, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Rice makes a wide circle around him on his way to the back of the stage. He removes a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe down his seat.

 _This is the price of survival. This is the price of survival_. Rice repeats the words to himself, stirring them around in his mind until he is calm. But his mantra can't comfort him forever, and neither can his routines.

Rice has settled his debts. But on Reaping Day, it's the district's turn to pay up.

 **AN: _Luetis_ will be a partial SYOT with six POVs, and I hope to begin writing the reapings sometime this summer, if I receive enough tribute submissions in the next few weeks. If you want to enter a character, please copy the tribute form below and fill in your tribute's information, and send it all to me in a PM. Please don't submit tributes in reviews. You can submit as many tributes as you want, but remember, I need younger tributes and bloodbaths, too!**

 **Important: I'll only be accepting one volunteer from an outer district; If you want this one, please PM me before submitting so I can give you the all-clear.**

 **Luetis POVs: Arden Borynski (Female, 2), Brina Whaley (Female, 4), Caph Schuyler (Female, 6), Ptolemy Barrington (Male, 7), Chintz Merier (Male, 8), and Tybalt Egan (Male, 9). One of these tributes will most likely be the victor.**

 **There is a full list of available spots on my profile. SUBMIT LIKE THE WIND!**

 **Tribute Form**

 **Name:**

 **Age:**

 **Gender:**

 **Preferred district:**

 **Backup districts (x2):**

 **Sexuality:**

 **Appearance:**

 **Personality:**

 **Family and Friends (names, ages, and a short description of each):**

 **Quirks/Habits:**

 **History:**

 **Reaped/Volunteer:**

 **Reaction to being reaped OR reason for volunteering:**

 **Visitors in the Justice Building:**

 **Token:**

 **How they interact with mentor/escort/stylist:**

 **Strategy for…**

 **Chariots?**

 **Training?**

 **Interview?**

 **Games? (+ what they do at the Cornucopia battle)**

 **Weapon(s) of choice:**

 **Training score/how they got it:**

 **Strengths (x3):**

 **Weaknesses (x3):**

 **Alliances?**

 **Interesting Facts (x3):**

 **Bloodbath? (no guarantees)**

 **Preferred death (required):**


	2. District 2 Reaping: Arden

**AN: Thank you to everyone who has submitted so far! There are still five spots left as I write this, so if you haven't submitted yet (or want to send in another), there are still four female tributes and one male available. Form is at the bottom of the previous chapter and on my profile. Please give me a hand, so I can truly start this story!**

 **But, in the meantime, I have all I need from Districts Two, Four, and Six, so I'll begin with those reapings and leave the list of available tributes below. Francis Brown was submitted by CrissKenobie-the-Numenorean. Hope you enjoy!**

 _Arden Borynski / District Two Female_

Rhyton is at its most beautiful in the early hours of the morning, after the previous night's pre-Games partiers have cleared out of the streets and the dew has just begun to settle on the sparse, stringy plant life. This is the time when I like to have my morning run.

I head off down the path, savoring the last few moments I'll have to myself for a while. I am the only one out here today, alone with my thoughts. Granted, my run would be a lot more relaxing if I had less on my mind, but it's not about that now. It's about the comforting normality of routine. It might be the last time I ever get to do this.

My sneakers hit the dirt in a spray of gravel as I stop in front of my home, breathing hard. Time to get ready. I scrape the mud off my shoes and head inside, making sure the door doesn't smack closed behind me.

 _Reaping day, reaping day._ I flick the lights on in my room and realize I must not be the only one up early this morning. There are clothes on my bed. My mother has set out a dress for me to wear, and it's a nice one; navy blue with red accents, just my colors. It almost makes me feel a little sad to ignore it.

My brother's room is just across the hall from mine; easy access. He likes to sleep in, so I feel a little guilty invading his space so early, but it isn't my fault. I need a lot of time to get ready today. Mico snoozes away under a mountain of blankets as I cross the floor and start searching through his closet.

I find what I'm looking for almost immediately; a clean button-down shirt and a pair of slacks. My brother is two years younger than I am and about three inches taller, but he and I are just about the same clothing size. Close enough that nothing's ridiculously large on me, anyway.

I run into a dilemma after I'm halfway dressed, which puts an end to admiring my reflection. Buttoning up the shirt over a clean tank, I cross the hall again in my socks. I pull back my brother's Blanket Mountain, not wanting to wake him too abruptly.

"Mico!" I whisper. "Mics, wake up!"

He groans and rolls over.

"Hey!" I jostle his shoulder. "Come on, I know you're awake!"

"Go away." he says into his pillow.

"I will. Just help me first."

"Uhhrgh. What?"

"Where do you keep your ties?" I ask him. There's a pause as he rolls back over to face me, groggy and confused.

" _Ties?_ " he asks. "You woke me up for that?"

I say nothing. He flops back down.

"Ugh, back of the closet. Box."

Mico and I don't often have cause to dress nicely, so I have to dig past a pile of training gear before I zero in on the box. I find two ties inside—one black, one red—as well as a pair of our Dad's old cuff links and one dressy pair of socks. I figure Mico'll need most of that today, so I pick out the red tie and straighten up again, wondering how in Panem I'm going to tie this thing around my neck.

I crouch down by his bed again. "Hey."

"What now, Arden?" He's more awake than he was, but still understandably pissed.

"Do you know how to tie it?"

"Nope!" He flings the covers back over his head. "Night!"

"Night, asshole. Thanks a ton." I wrap the tie around my neck like a scarf and leave him to sleep in, moments before his alarm starts blaring.

I wet down my close-cropped hair in front of the mirror, straighten my collar. I even make a few vain attempts to tie Mico's tie. In the end, I slip the thing into my pocket and head downstairs for breakfast.

Both parents cringe when they see my reaping outfit, but oddly enough, they say nothing about it. I suppose it's 'my day', after all. My mood is improved when Mico finally drags himself downstairs, where he gives me a once-over and a nod of approval before pouring himself a salad bowl's worth of cereal.

"Very nice," he says. "Where's the tie?"

My father raises an eyebrow at me above his newspaper, and I remain silent.

"Don't bother her, Mico." My mother busies herself straightening out my brother's wrinkled suit jacket. "Arden has to concentrate today. Remember what we said yesterday night?"

"What, that we're not going to visit her after she volunteers?"

"No," Mom says patiently. "I said, we're all going to say goodbye to her this morning, so she can focus."

"That's dumb." Mico makes a face. "Her friends and trainers are going to visit her after, why shouldn't we—"

"Mico, enough." Dad's word is law. My brother quiets, scooping cereal into his mouth. I give him a shrug.

"I won't get many visitors, Mics." I tell him. "I said goodbye to my friends at the Center yesterday."

"This family's so weird," he says with his mouth full.

"Arden," says Dad, "I want you to know how proud we all are that you're representing our district this year."

"We're starting the goodbyes already?" I say, frowning.

"Don't talk while I'm talking," he tells me. "You're ready for today, aren't you? You've been preparing yourself for this your entire life, in and out of training. And you know I've always told you that if you work hard, you'll be rewarded."

"And I've worked hard." I try to say. It comes out sounding like a question.

But my father nods.

…

Two's reaping is a very social event; much of the district has gathered in town early to discuss my chances this year. Mine and Francis Brown's, anyway. I receive words of congratulation, pats on the back as I sign in, which I receive politely, my stomach turning. I catch my favorite trainer herding a flock of twelve-year-olds to their roped-off section of the square.

"Deck!" I call out, "Deccan!"

"Morning, Borynski," he says over the sound of their chatter. "Hey, quiet down. Get to your spots." They ignore him.

"You on preteen detail today?" I ask him.

"Hah. They know how to keep me on my toes at the Center, that's for sure. Would you be quiet!"

"Good luck, Arden!" one of his kids shouts to me.

"Thank you. Go to your spot." I tell him.

"Are you ready for today?" Deccan looks at me. "I didn't see you in the gym this morning."

"Family wanted me to have breakfast with them," I explain. "I've had enough practice, anyway. Time for the real deal."

"That's what I like to hear." He nods. "All your hard work's about to pay off, Borynski. Smile big for those cameras."

"Deck, you know how to tie a tie, right?"

Deccan blinks. "Any self-respecting man should know that."

"Okay, great." I get Mico's red tie out of my pocket. "Help."

The trainer looks at me curiously for a second. "A tie, Arden?"

I nod, feeling brave. His eye isn't critical. He heaves a sigh and takes it from me.

"Let me do it for you for now," he says. "I have to get back to these small demons. I can always teach you this when you get back. And that's 'when' with a capital W-H-E-N." He finishes the loop, sliding the knot up to my collar. "No ifs, buts, or maybes. Right, Borynski?"

"Of course, Deccan." I say, examining his handiwork. "And thank you."

"Don't mention it," he tells me. "Now get to your spot."

…

The escort and the mayor take turns trying to outdo each other onstage, the victors and the audience watching blankly from either side. For whatever reason, it's more of a mess this year than usual, but eventually they get on track, and a name is called.

"I volunteer!" I shout immediately. My voice is steady, strong. I practice it in the mirror whenever my family isn't home.

"It looks like we have a volunteer!" The escort, an impossibly tall woman with hair the color of rust, waves at me as I climb the stairs. At the last moment, I remember what Deccan told me about smiling.

"What's your name, dear?" I take the microphone.

"My name is Arden Borynski." I say, like I practiced. "Your future victor."

A round of applause surges up from the audience as I give back the mic, taking my place on the stage. I take a deep breath and glance back at Two's previous victors, and to my alarm, Claudius Carr gives me a thumbs-up. It's the proudest moment of my life.

"Now, let's move on to…" The escort blinks at me, as if she may have mixed up the reaping bowls by mistake. "To the boys?"

I nod. She brightens, delving into the second glass bowl. It takes her a moment to read the name, pinching the slip of paper between her long, red fingernails.

"Mico Borynski!"

My composure cracks, but I pull myself together quickly. Of course, Francis is going to volunteer for him. He was selected this year to fight alongside me. I shook his hand after the tribute trials. He is going to volunteer.

I see my brother in the aisle, slowly making his way to the stage. He shrugs at a friend in the audience, wondering why the chosen volunteer is taking so long. I start to panic.

"Borynski, that's not a common last name. Any relation, Arden?"

"He's not…" I clear my throat. "He's my brother, but he's not going to—"

"I volunteer!" says a voice from the audience. I breathe out, finally relaxing. Mico heads back to his section, passing a bulky seventeen-year-old with scruffy blond hair on his way to the stage, looking as if he just rolled out of bed.

"And what's your name, son?" My district partner takes a second to catch his breath.

"Francis Brown," he says, and the microphone screeches. He doesn't flinch. "My name's Francis Brown."

"Well, we have our tributes, then! Ladies and gentlemen, please congratulate Arden Borynski and Francis Brown!" The crowd cheers for us, and I glare at my partner. "Shake hands, you two."

He turns to me, and I notice a butterfly bandage above his eyebrow that wasn't there yesterday. This is my district partner. We're the same height, albeit not as evenly matched in strength. I'll never admit that he intimidates me, but although he's a year younger, he's an excellent shot. I've never seen his equal with a bow.

I grip his hand as if I want to break his fingers. He grimaces.

"You're _late_." I tell him.

"I'm here," he says back.

…

Last night, my parents and I agreed that I would not accept visitors in the Justice Building. Now that I'm actually sitting here, I know that rule's going right out the tiny, sealed window.

A couple buddies from the Center come to wish me luck. Mainly the younger ones, the ones who aren't bitter about losing to me in the tribute trials. It's nice to have some people to talk to back here, even if it's only for a few minutes at a time. Soon, Deccan arrives with last minute training advice. I tell him he's always been like a parent to me. He tells me to shut up and to please make it home alive.

Last to arrive is Mico, flagrantly disobeying our parents. He grins at me, but his smile drops when I throw my arms around him.

"Hey, it's okay! I'm fine!"

"I know you're fine. You just freaked me out!" I admit. My brother laughs.

"If that's all it takes, I don't know what you're going to do when you hit the arena." I know it's a joke, but I can't help but grimace at him. It's all very real to me now.

Mico notices my unease. "You're going to be fine, Arden."

I brush back my hair and take a deep breath, pulling myself together. I am going to be fine.

"And you," I say back. "Are going to _wait your turn_."

He laughs, and I laugh, and I'm scared as hell.

Time to make my district proud.

 **AN: And that's our first POV! Once again, thanks to CrissKenobie-the-Numenorean for Francis.**

 **There are still five open spots in Luetis! Show the outer districts some love! If you've already submitted, you're welcome to submit another. The tribute list, as it is now:**

 **D1 Male: Paris Calloway (Emrys Holmes)**

 **D1 Female: AVAILABLE**

 **D2 Male: Francis Brown (CrissKenobie-the-Numenorean)**

 **D2 Female: Arden Borynski (KTGAP)**

 **D3 Male: Hans Santino (Declan42)**

 **D3 Female AVAILABLE**

 **D4 Male: Beckett McKenzie (HogwartsDreamer113)**

 **D4 Female: Brina Whaley (KTGAP)**

 **D5 Male: Leviathan "Lev" McKinley (CelticGames4)**

 **D5 Female: RESERVED (Sinfonian Legend)**

 **D6 Male: Connor Allbright (Emrys Holmes)**

 **D6 Female: Caph Schuyler (KTGAP)**

 **D7 Male: Ptolemy Barrington (KTGAP)**

 **D7 Female: RESERVED (Wetstar)**

 **D8 Male: Chintz Merier (KTGAP)**

 **D8 Female: Beatrice Reverend (Emrys Holmes)**

 **D9 Male: Tybalt Egan (KTGAP)**

 **D9 Female: Perry Killam (CelticGames4)**

 **D10 Male: Harker Vail (anniefoxface2)**

 **D10 Female: Zoe Mercedes (calebbeers21)**

 **D11 Male: AVAILABLE**

 **D11 Female: AVAILABLE**

 **D12 Male: Gareth Corrigan (HogwartsDreamer113)**

 **D12 Female: AVAILABLE**


	3. District 4 Reaping: Brina

**AN: Brina = (Bri like Brian). Also, thank you HogwartsDreamer113 for Beckett!**

 **Luetis still needs more tributes! (Still five spots available) Submission form and tribute list are on my profile, but I'll post the list again under the chapter. Multiple submissions are welcome, but the outer-district volunteer is taken. (If you want to submit a volunteer, there is still one Career spot available!)**

 _Brina Whaley / District Four Female_

The best part about early-morning training is that, after today, I'll never have to do it again.

Of course, I don't usually do a whole lot of _training_ during these morning sessions. It's too early for that. I prefer to lie low around the water cooler with my friends until I have a chance to wake up. I liked it much better when I was fifteen and could pick my own schedule, though. Just because the trainers don't get any sleep doesn't mean I should be deprived of my beauty rest.

"That's so true," Simois remarks, and I start. I guess I must have said that out loud.

"I'm never going to volunteer anyway," says Nixie with a sigh. "I'm only here because my parents wanted me to stay away from bad influences and underage drinking."

"Not that that's stopped you," Dorian says under her breath, and Simois snickers.

"I want to volunteer," I tell them. "But I want to _win_ , too. That's why we're here, isn't it? All of us except Nixie, anyway."

"And me," says Simois.

"Brina, you don't really need to volunteer though, do you?" asks Dorian. "You could have any other kind of life in Four, if you wanted it."

"I want this one." I say, distracted, watching Beckett McKenzie hurl a spear into the center of a target.

"Your dad's buying a sailboat, though!" exclaims Nixie, grabbing my hands. "You said you'd take us out on it!"

"There's plenty of time for that after I win," I tell her, pulling my hands away. "Can't you see this is important to me?"

"We know it is, Bri," says Simois. "We just don't really understand you and Dorian, that's all. You victor-types." Dorian beams at her, but I sigh.

"Oh, stop it." Nixie says. "How are things going with Zale?"

"Great," I lie, and she grins. I wonder if she was aware of her brother's wandering eyes when she set him up with me. Probably not. I can't convince myself Nixie's really aware of _anything_.

A stocky lady-trainer with hair that looks like it was cut with blunt scissors comes over to the cooler. "Hey, you four!"

"Yessir," says Simois under her breath.

"Water break's over," says the trainer. "It's _been_ over for forty-five minutes."

"Um, actually," pipes up Nixie. "Simois and I aren't volunteering, so we don't really need to train."

"Not my problem. If you don't want to be here, take it up with your parents." To my displeasure, she turns to me next. "And you, Whaley. I know you want to volunteer, so get out there. If you really want to make our district proud, you'll have to improve your swordsmanship."

I shrug. "I'd rather just use a machete."

"You lack grace," she points a gloved finger at me. "Keep it up and you'll never be a candidate."

Once she turns her back on us, Simois pretends to gag.

"God, someone didn't make the cut."

"Oh, you just know she trained too hard."

"How hard can it be, really?" I ask them. "Volunteering. The whole candidate-selection process is just a dumb tradition. All you really have to do is beat the others to the stage."

"Must've been too slow."

"She's bitter. That's why she's still here, after what, like thirty years?"

"Forty!" exclaims Nixie.

"There haven't been forty Games yet, genius."

"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves," Zale says as he joins us, giving me a quick kiss before going to fill up his water bottle. "We'll have to see Brina and Beckett through this year first."

Nixie blinks at her brother. "Don't you mean Beckett and Talay?"

Simois nearly spits out her water. "Brina, you're volunteering today?"

I glare at Zale. "It was _supposed_ to be a surprise." Even Dorian looks shocked. My boyfriend puts up his hands in surrender.

"What about the girl who's supposed to go in?" asks Simois.

"What about her?" I shoot back. "I have the right to volunteer, too."

"Huh. I guess I never thought about it that way before," says Dorian.

"And good thing, too," I say. "Otherwise, I'd be up against you this year as well."

"You still might be," she says, which makes me uneasy. I'm about to say something back when Zale recaptures my attention, holding his hand out to me.

"What's this?" I ask.

"An apology," he says. He opens his hand, revealing a thin silver charm bracelet. "Got it at Bentley's. You know, for your token. Can you forgive me for telling them?"

"Wow, that's really nice," says Dorian, a spark of envy in her voice. He's totally screwing her on the side.

"That'll look beautiful with your reaping dress, Brina!" exclaims Nixie as the clock strikes nine. Zale looks pleased with himself.

But I'll have to judge its beauty for myself.

…

The bracelet does look nice with my turquoise dress; even Zale knows silver goes with everything. I wanted the whole look to match my eyes, but maybe a bit of jewelry would do it good, too.

I shower and change quickly, and decide not to attempt anything special with my hair and makeup, instead breezing through my usual routine. Panem will see me at my best during the chariots, the interviews. Today, I have to leave the Center early. I need to be away from my friends for a while.

It's ten-thirty when I go to meet Remo by the docks. I'm not sure if he sleeps here, but this is where I usually find him during the day, on the driest steps, watching the ships. There's no one out in Plas Harbor today, since everyone's in town for the reaping, but he's still here. The ex-cannery worker gives me a once-over when he sees me.

"You look nice," he remarks. "Consumed any souls of the innocent today?"

"Fuck off, Remo. It's my day today."

"Oh, let's be honest, yeah?" The canner laughs. "Every day is your day."

He may love to make me angry, but he's right about one thing; I do look great. Which is more than can be said for Remo on most days, in his dirty jeans and undone button-down. The safety pin that ties up his right sleeve has come undone, leaving it loose and limp where his arm should be.

"I hope you won't talk about me like that after I leave," I tell him. "I'll still need sponsors." That's a lie, and he knows it.

"Your father's all the sponsors you need." He dismisses me with less humor this time. After a pause, he looks at me again. "So you're still volunteering, then."

"Yes. And you're going to give me your opinion again."

"Right you are. Shitty idea."

"You're not stopping me," I notice.

"Nope," he says, adjusting his position on his step. "People like you need to learn these lessons for yourselves."

"I won't die," I tell him.

"I used to think I was immortal." Remo says back. "Thought I'd volunteer and make it out without a scratch. Remember me?"

I do remember. He was only a few years ahead of me in training. Even balancing school and a part time job at the fish cannery, he was all set to volunteer for the thirty-seventh Games. The district had even begun to put money on his victory, until he lost his arm to the elbow in an accident at the cannery, and spent his final reaping passed out in the hospital. To add insult to injury, the boy picked to be his replacement died on Day Two.

"Well, clearly the universe had other plans for you." I tell him flatly.

"Have I ever told you how much I hate you?"

"You won't hate me when I'm rich."

"You're already rich." He shakes his head. "Do you have a token yet?"

I blink. "Uh, I—"

"I made you a token. Look." With his good hand, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small hunk of wood. He hands it to me, and I hold it between two fingers to avoid giving myself a splinter.

"What is it?"

"Don't you see what it is?" He says, frustrated. "It's a sea turtle, see? I carved it."

I squint. I think I see a shell, but the head and limbs are undistinguishable.

"I can sort of see it?" I tell him, and he seems satisfied. "How did you carve this one-handed?"

Remo zips his lips. "A good craftsman never tells his secrets."

"You're not a good craftsman."

"Fine." He blinks. "It's tape. My secret is tape."

I look down at the carving again. "Thanks," I tell him. "This was…weirdly nice of you."

"Rethink today, Brina," he says, not looking at me. "Please."

"Sorry," I tell him. "Nonnegotiable."

He looks back. "I really hope I'm wrong about you."

I throw him a shrug and head to the square.

…

Pacatissima Ironwood looks outlandishly beautiful up on that stage. Even with her unwieldy blue hoop skirt and her braided hairstyle that, somehow, takes the shape of a bird in flight, she owns her unusual style it in a way that the girls in this district just don't. I've always envied the glamorous lifestyle of the Capitolites, even if I'm not one for hoop skirts.

The escort picks a name from the boys' bowl, and I begin to edge my way to the front of my age group.

"Merle Davidson!"

"I volunteer!" shouts Beckett, and I stop to watch him make his way to the stage.

Beckett McKenzie is, for lack of a less fishy word, a catch. He's talented as hell, good-looking, a perfect gentleman. Not quite my type, but I know quite a few girls who have their eye on him, despite the fact that he's A. gay and B. taken. He and his Danny are almost sickeningly sweet together. It's kind of a shame, what's going to have to happen for me to take first place.

"Stella O'Connor!" calls out Pacatissima.

"I volunteer!" I yell at the same time as an older girl in the section in front of me. Panicking, she breaks into a sprint, but not before I've started my dash for the stage. I narrowly avoid having to shoulder her away from the steps, clambering up them with all the grace of a fish out of water. I don't look down at the girl once I'm at the top. I adjust my dress and move forward to greet Pacatissima and Beckett.

"We have another volunteer!" cries Pacatissima. "What's your name, darling?"

I take the mic. "My name is Brina Whaley."

"Just wonderful! District Four, your tributes, Beckett McKenzie and Brina Whaley!" announces our escort before turning to Beckett. "Shake hands with her, dear."

My district partner looks confused. "Where's Talay?"

"Change of plans," I say, smiling at the cameras as he takes my hand.

…

My friends and Zale visit me first. I make a show of myself, asking Zale to wait for me and watching Dorian's expression shift. I won't kid myself. No one's going to be doing any waiting while I'm gone.

My parents are equally fun. I didn't tell them I was volunteering, so that went over about as well as you can imagine. My mother cried the whole time. My father, at least, promised to sponsor me. He's always been my more like-minded parent. He'll probably even forgive me if I come back alive.

By the time Remo gets there, I don't have much time left.

"So you didn't listen to me."

I roll my eyes. "You gave me a token. You knew I wasn't planning on listening to you."

"Brina, you're being so…!" he struggles to find words, slamming his palm on the nice table. "Argh! You're throwing your life away!"

"I'm tired of being yelled at!" I match his volume.

"I'm tired of being ignored!"

I give a shout of frustration. "Listen, I'm sorry you didn't get to volunteer, but it's my turn now, so leave me the hell alone!"

Remo sits down, staring at me blankly. I put my head in my hands. At that inconvenient moment, the door swings open, and a petite blonde girl shoves her way past the Peacekeeper at the door with surprising force. I tense, recognizing her as the girl I beat to the stage.

"Listen, it's not my fault you didn't run fast enough." I tell her. "And I'm sick to death of being yelled at today, so if that's what you're here for, I'm having you kicked out."

"I'm not going to yell," she says, although her fists are clenched.

"Why not?" asks Remo after a pause. I elbow him in the ribs.

"I'm seventeen," the girl says, trying to keep her voice level. "I'll have another chance next year. I just wanted to come back here and show the trainers I'm not a poor sport."

"Oh. Ew." Immediately, I can tell she's my least favorite type of person.

"I was warned there might be attention-seekers in the crowd. Or other kids in training who volunteer impulsively because they're not skilled enough to be selected on their own." she says. "I suspect you're both, so I'm not angry. In fact, I pity you. You're so young. I hope you're not going in unprepared."

"I'll be fine." I tell her flatly. "Also, I'm sixteen. So who knows? Maybe I'll be your mentor next year."

"God, I hope not." With that, she turns on her heel and leaves, the Peacekeeper muttering an apology as he closes the door behind her. Remo and I just stare at each other.

He blinks first. "You know, she's not quite _worse_ , but maybe you're not as far ahead of the pack as I thought you were."

"That's probably the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Remo sits back with a sigh. "I always wondered why you hung around me. Are there really no decent kids in training nowadays?"

"You want the truth?" I ask him. "You're the only honest person I know."

The Peacekeeper opens the door again. "Time's up."

Remo stands with me. "You'll keep the stupid turtle, right?"

"Of course I'll keep the stupid turtle," I tell him quickly. "It's great."

"Drop me a mention in your interview maybe?"

I blink. "What's your last name?"

"Coupler. Remo Coupler."

"Maybe," I say, hugging him for the first time. For a moment, he tenses up, and I almost let him go. But then he puts his arm around me.

"Come on," says the Peacekeeper. "It's time to go."

Remo looks back at me before he's led out the door, and after another minute, it's my turn to leave. I take a deep breath and join Beckett in the hallway. I wonder if he got a visit from Talay, too. His eyes are tinged slightly red.

"Were you crying?" I ask him. He wipes at his face.

"No." he says.

"Why not?" I ask. "Isn't it kind of sad, that we're leaving? I think it is."

He looks at me for a moment. "Why are you smiling, then?"

I shrug. "I'm excited. I've never been on a train before."

Beckett seems to accept this, but it's not the real reason. I don't think he'd quite understand if I told him that I'm smiling because I left my new charm bracelet behind in the Justice Building, sitting atop one of those ornate cushioned seats. Some secretary, cleaner, or maybe even next year's female tribute will probably claim Zale's gift to me someday, and that's fine.

I'll be too good for him soon.

 **AN: If I can get the next chapter out soon, it will be the last one until I can get some more tributes in. (I still need a plan for the Games!) Tribute form is on my profile, multiple submissions welcome. Available tributes are as follows:**

 **D1 Male: Paris Calloway (Emrys Holmes)**

 **D1 Female: AVAILABLE**

 **D2 Male: Francis Brown (CrissKenobie-the-Numenorean)**

 **D2 Female: Arden Borynski (KTGAP)**

 **D3 Male: Hans Santino (Declan42)**

 **D3 Female: (awaiting submission)**

 **D4 Male: Beckett McKenzie (HogwartsDreamer113)**

 **D4 Female: Brina Whaley (KTGAP)**

 **D5 Male: Leviathan "Lev" McKinley (CelticGames4)**

 **D5 Female: RESERVED (Sinfonian Legend)**

 **D6 Male: Connor Allbright (Emrys Holmes)**

 **D6 Female: Caph Schuyler (KTGAP)**

 **D7 Male: Ptolemy Barrington (KTGAP)**

 **D7 Female: RESERVED (Wetstar)**

 **D8 Male: Chintz Merier (KTGAP)**

 **D8 Female: Beatrice Reverend (Emrys Holmes)**

 **D9 Male: Tybalt Egan (KTGAP)**

 **D9 Female: Perry Killam (CelticGames4)**

 **D10 Male: Harker Vail (anniefoxface2)**

 **D10 Female: Zoe Mercedes (calebbeers21)**

 **D11 Male: AVAILABLE**

 **D11 Female: AVAILABLE**

 **D12 Male: Gareth Corrigan (HogwartsDreamer113)**

 **D12 Female: AVAILABLE**


	4. District 6 Reaping: Caph

**AN: Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far, as well as those who have submitted! As of now, there are no more available tributes, but I have planned almost the entire story! Still lacking a victor, but I'll figure that out once I set these Games in motion.**

 **I will be instituting a sponsor system as soon as the six introductory POV chapters are finished. Some of you have already gained some sponsor points by reviewing, following, and favoriting this story, and in the future you will be able to gain more points by answering questions/taking polls!**

 **Special thanks to Emrys Holmes for Connor.**

 _Caph Schuyler / District Six Female_

Even with the knowledge that I have only two slips of paper in the reaping bowl, keeping my mind off the Games today is no simple task. In fact, it happens to require a lot of effort, concentration, paper, and colored pencils.

"Really, Caph?" My father looks over my shoulder, examining my masterpiece. "Is that appropriate?"

"It's just a poster." I stare down at the block letters I've painstakingly colored, filling up the blank spaces with stars, planets, entire little galaxies. The words are _JOIN ASTRONOMY CLUB_ and my father does not quite approve of them.

"On Reaping Day?" He adjusts his glasses slightly. "Shouldn't you be focused on looking presentable for the ceremony?"

My pencil stops moving, and I take a glance at my coffee-stained dress. It's not the most glamorous assemblage of fabric pieces in Panem, but it's easily the prettiest thing I own. My day-to-day ensemble is often more functional than fashionable.

"Let her be, dear." As always, Mom comes to the rescue. "Everyone's in town on Reaping Day, which means more kids from Caph's school will be there to see her sign. It's the perfect day for it."

"And I'll put it away when the ceremony begins!" I chime in. "Please, Dad! There can't be a club if I'm the only member!"

Dad's shoulders rise and fall with his sigh. "I hope you know how lucky you are, Caph. When I was your age, I took tesserae for my entire family." I understand what he's saying, but I can't help but feel as if it doesn't apply to me.

"The reaping is just one day," I say. "A couple of hours, even. I can't spend the whole year worrying about it."

"I'd say we're lucky to have a daughter who wants to further her education," Mom gives me a private grin before glancing at the clock. "Oh! Caph, you should get going!"

"Right!" I roll up my poster, standing up from the table. "Wish me luck today!"

Mom's smile falters for just a moment.

"May the odds be ever in your favor, Caph."

…

"Did you know that many galaxies have a supermassive black hole at their center?" I call out from beside the sign-in line. "They're called supermassive because they have the mass of millions of suns!"

"Shut up, kid!" says an older boy from the line. I hold my sign higher.

"Did you know that Venus has a diameter of nearly twelve thousand kilometers?" No response this time, except for one brutally offended girl who thought I was talking about _her_. Looks like I forgot to account for the small, small portion of people in Six who happen to be named for stars and planets, like Venus and I.

"Hey, Caph! What're you doing?" Speaking of people named for cosmic bodies, Aricha bounces up to me after getting her finger pricked.

"Lobbying for astronomy club. Want to join?" The twelve-year-old blinks at me.

"What do you do in astronomy club? Just talk about space the whole time?"

"You could talk about space forever," I say. "As far as we know, it's infinite. But the real point of what I'm doing is to catch the attention of the school board. I want this stuff to be taught in schools, so more people might want to become astrophysicists or astronauts, like I do."

"Right, I'm not going to pretend I know what 'astrophysicist' means." Aricha shakes her head. "But my dad says we need more people to lay tracks so we have a more efficient way to travel between the districts. So that's what I'm probably going to do when I grow up."

"Oh." It's hard to be disappointed, since no one's expressed interest in my club at all until now.

"But I could still help you out, if you want," Aricha offers. "I really owe you one for helping me pass math last year."

"Really?" Suddenly, the day doesn't seem so muggy, nor the whispers of the sign-in line so frightened. "Thank y—!"

"Hey!" barks a Peacekeeper from the sign-in table. "You kids register yet?"

I nod, my fingers gripping the edge of my poster tightly.

"The mayor is speaking! Get to your spots!"

"I guess that's the end of that." Aricha's nonchalance thinly masks her fear for her first reaping.

"Guess so." I wish I knew what to say to her. "Let's get ready."

With little else to discuss about space or anything else, Aricha moves swiftly to her section with noticeably less skip in her step. I quietly take my spot among my own age group as the mayor's speech wraps up, trying to crease my unsuccessful failure poster into a pocket-sized rectangle.

"My name is Tiberine Bibelot! It's so lovely to join you all in District Six!"

The escort is new this year; a woman with orangey hair and a name like a tongue twister. The first thing I notice about her is that she's wearing the tallest shoes I've ever seen, and needs every inch of them to keep her long, brilliant hair from brushing the ground. She seems almost like a fairy-tale princess, if those were real and wore twelve-inch platforms.

"Let's start with the ladies, shall we?" she asks, as if we can give her an answer. She shuffles in her monster shoes until she reaches the glass bowl that I assume contains my name—twice.

But I suppose I should be more worried about Aricha, who's entering her first reaping with eight slips of paper in the mix. My poster is crumpled further as my grip tightens around it, my eyes locked on Tiberine's hand.

When she's satisfied with her choice, the new escort brings it right up to her nose to read. It takes her a moment, her face screwing up in confusion. After what seems like forever, she gives an uneasy chuckle.

"They never tell you what to do if you can't quite pronounce it," she quips in her accent. A Peacekeeper quietly comes to her aid, reading the name and whispering what must be the correct pronunciation in her ear. Tiberine gasps in sudden comprehension and gathers the man into a grateful hug, leaving a smudge of makeup on the shoulder of his white uniform.

"There we have it," Tiberine says apologetically. "Caph Schuyler! Would Caph Schuyler come up here please?"

I feel my grip loosen on the poster; its rolled-up, creased remains to fall to the ground with a noise like cannon fire.

"Do we have a Caph Schuyler in the crowd today?" asks Tiberine. "What happens if she's not there? Do we pick another name?"

At this, I feel a set of hands on my back, and in an instant I find myself reeling in the center of the aisle. I stumble and right myself, feeling weak.

"There she is!" exclaims Tiberine, her orange curls looking less regal now. If anything, up on that stage, she looks downright menacing.

I force my knees to unlock, shuffling forward. The Peacekeeper with the makeup stain on his shoulder helps me up the stairs, likely because he's afraid I'll bolt. He has nothing to worry about; I'm barely strong enough to keep myself upright, much less make a break for it.

"Hello there, Caph Schuyler," Tiberine greets me. "I bet you'd like to find out who your district partner will be!"

She tilts the microphone in my direction, but I am still too shocked to speak.

"Alright then!" The escort remains fiercely cheerful. "To the boys!"

She plunges her gloved hand into the other glass reaping bowl, leaning far enough in to scrape the very bottom. When she surfaces again, she has a slip of paper between her fingers.

"Now, let's have…Pate Reynolds!" she calls out. "Is there a Pate Reynolds with us today?"

A scruffy-haired boy emerges from the sixteen-year-old section, limping slightly as he walks up to the stage. His shoulders shake, as if he's trying not to cry. As he makes his way down the center aisle, I try to take in every inch of his appearance, wondering if I'll be his ally in the Games, or his enemy. Or worse yet, if I'll even make it far enough to be either. Only when he gets close enough for me to see his tears do I hear a voice from the back of the audience.

"I volunteer!" The voice is almost frantic. Every head turns to the twelve-year-old section, where a skinny boy with dark hair is pushing his way into the aisle. He pauses for a second in the center, as everyone in the district stares at him with alarm. There's never been a volunteer from Six before.

Pate sprints back to his section before the child can change his mind.

"Oh, it…it looks like we have a volunteer!" Tiberine looks as surprised as the rest of us. I steal a glance behind us, at Axel Feynman; even our district's only victor is sitting forward in his chair.

As the boy gets closer, I notice just how skinny he is. His cheeks are hollow, his features sharp. His bony elbows stick out like knots in a tree branch. When he climbs the steps to the stage, I notice something else; I've never seen a volunteer look so terrified.

Tiberine is very pleased.

"This is just wonderful!" She offers him the mic, but he only stares at it. The district is silent.

"Tell Panem your name, dear!" she prompts him. Tentatively, he takes the microphone.

"Conn—" He clears his throat, trembling. "Connor Allbright."

"District Six, meet your new tributes! Let's all congratulate Caph Schuyler and Connor Allbright!"

Tiberine turns to the two of us, tells us to shake hands. He may look frail, but his grip is tough as nails. I manage to hold it together until we're inside the Justice Building, where I collapse into sobs.

I get a few visitors, but I feel as if I'm watching myself interact with my loved ones from behind a wall. My mother tells me I can make it through the Hunger Games; my father agrees, lying through her teeth. Aricha brings me my poster, promising to take over my duties as club president until I return. Somehow, the club seems a lot less important to me now. Getting to space is no longer the primary objective. I try to tell Aricha this, but she's not having any of it.

"If you win, you won't even have to worry about astronomy club!" she says, "You could build a shuttle and go to space yourself!"

 _It doesn't matter anymore_. I want to cry louder, scream harder. But I know she won't hear me.

 **AN: Sorry for the relative shortness of this chapter, I've been busy with school. The next chapter should be out this weekend if I'm lucky and have some more time to write this week. Thanks again to Emrys for Connor!**


	5. District 7 Reaping: Tolly

**AN: Ptolemy has a silent P! (TOL- eh – mee) Also, thank you Jess (Wetstar) for Avaline! I lov her.**

 _Ptolemy Barrington / District Seven Male_

I try to treat the reaping like a holiday. Superficially, it's an excuse to wear my best clothes and it often serves as a much-needed day off from work. But even this year, the last time this holiday will put my life in danger, I find it difficult to drag myself out of bed for the ceremony.

 _Today's Goal of the Day is to stay positive._

With that in mind, I soak up three more seconds of rest before throwing the covers off of my body. Nax is still fast asleep. Repeating my goal to myself, I swing my legs over the side of my bed, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

 _If I can make it through today_ , I tell myself, _I can make it through anything_.

I had already laid out my reaping best the previous night; gray slacks and a white button-down shirt, a forest-green tie and a suit jacket that's one growth spurt away from belonging to my younger brother. I suppose soon enough I won't have reason to wear it anymore. But it would be silly to feel grief about it, when the positive consequences of making it through my last reaping are much, much greater.

The last addition to my ensemble is a set of three hollow wooden fingers, which fit snugly over what little remains of my right hand's middle, ring, and pinkie. The prosthetics do more to maintain the appearance of a normal-looking hand than to actually increase my mobility, but that's alright; that's what I made them for. I tighten the leather strap around my wrist and flex my phony fingers, admiring my handiwork.

 _Hand-iwork_. I think to myself as I walk to the kitchen. _Nice_.

Fey is already making breakfast when I come in.

"How is it that you're always up earlier than me?" I join my sister at the table and pick up a knife, holding an apple steady with my right hand. Left-handed knife operation isn't easy for me, but I've learned to make it work without losing any additional fingers.

"Easy," she says. "Sun hits my room first."

I chuckle, and my knife almost slips. "So where's Ryla, then? I thought she was feeling better."

"She lied. She's gotten worse. There's a cough now."

"Think it could be nerves?" I ask. "I was pretty afraid for my first reaping."

Fey shakes her head. "Nerves make you feel sick, but they don't make you cough. Whatever she's caught, it's here for the long haul."

"Terrible timing." I frown.

"It's just one day." Fey's shoulders shrug slightly as she goes to check on the oatmeal. "Ryla doesn't even have to worry about going into the Games for another two years, at least. She can survive this one just fine."

"Who can survive what?" Nax says, plopping down into his seat. Ryla's not far behind him, still looking undeniably under the weather.

"She means the reaping," the twelve-year-old says, sniffing. "Because one of us might get picked."

Nax throws her a shrug. "It's no big deal. Tolly and Fey have all the tesserae."

"Why are you like that?" Ryla's voice shakes. "I don't want them to get picked, either!"

"You don't have to worry about us, Ry," I assure her, passing my youngest siblings some apple slices. "We could hold our own in the arena, no problem."

Fey lets out a laugh. "Sure, you with your lefty axe and me with my carpentry skills."

"You could use your circular saw," suggests Nax as she pours out our breakfast. " _Bzzzzzz!_ "

"Anaximander, that's enough." Mom shuts him down quickly as she enters the kitchen, pulling on her uniform jacket.

"Sorry, Mom."

"Tol, Fey, would you two take Nax and Ryla to the square and get them signed in?" she asks us, already halfway out the door. "I need to do something for work. Shouldn't take long. I'll still be there when the ceremony begins."

"Course we can!" I say at the same time Fey asks, "What kind of something?"

"Just something." Mom slips further out the door. "I love you, kids. Be safe today."

"Will do," I say.

"Not our choice," Fey says.

"I'm scared," Ryla whispers as the door closes behind her.

…

The line for sign-in is longer this year than I remember. Ryla's age group must have a large population. I decide that this is a good thing, for my sister's sake. The line filters out into sections in the wide town square, standing before the wooden stage that has temporarily replaced the stone steps of the Justice Building.

"There's our brave victor," says Fey somewhat caustically.

I follow her eyes and spot Timber Rice already on the stage, wiping down his chair with a rag. I was only twelve when he won the Games, but I remember that Eustace Braun always seemed to be a more stable victor. That is, until he killed himself the year Timber won, and the whole district had to rethink the way we saw victors.

"You shouldn't make fun of him." I always thought the Games ended once you left the arena, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe Timber's eccentric behavior is just another product of his victory.

I spot Katsura from a distance, joining the sign-in line at the very back.

"Fey, can you get Nax and Ryla signed-in?" I ask my sister.

"If this is so you can ditch us and talk to your backstabbing girlfriend, I am so not okay with that."

"Don't talk about her like that!" I cut her off, my voice sharp. Fey looks surprised, so I soften my expression, taking a breath. "It's just Kat. I have to thank him for yesterday."

"Okay." Uncharacteristically, she says nothing else, but I can feel her eyes on me as I leave my place in line.

 _Stay positive._

"Katsura!" I call out, trying to seem a little happier than I am. "Kat, hey!"

"Hey, Tolly." He smiles when he sees me, and I join him in line without too much protest from the kids standing behind him. I first knew Kat Nakano as a prolific lumberjack, especially for such a tiny dude. Now said tiny dude is my closest friend.

"Thanks for covering my shift yesterday," I tell him, clapping him on the back with my good hand. "Seriously. If there's any way I can make it up to you—"

Kat shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. Is Ryla feeling any better?"

"She ate this morning, so that's something." I say. "She's in line ahead of us with Nax and Fey."

"Scared at all?" Kat asks, looking further up the line.

"Terrified, but she doesn't need to worry." For now, at least. I shake my head, trying to banish the thought from my mind. Fey and I would sooner volunteer ourselves than watch Ryla and Nax go into the Games.

"I meant you, stupid." Kat meets my eyes. "Are you scared?"

I blink at him, caught off guard. In all honesty, there was too much going on today for me to even think to be scared for myself. I wouldn't be doing a very good job of staying positive if I had to focus my energy on being afraid. Trying not to picture the thirty-two slips of paper in that bowl with my name on them, I shake my head at Kat.

"No. There must be millions of names in there."

…

Kat and I separate once we sign in; he's a year younger than I am, so he finds a place in the seventeen-year-old section as I move closer to the front.

"Where are you going?" he asks. "It hasn't even started yet!"

I glance towards at my section. "I should really talk to Summer. I'll meet you after, though."

"Are you serious?" Kat asks flatly. "I thought you guys broke up."

"We're on-again," I tell him, hoping he won't ask me to justify it. Instead, he just lowers his eyes.

"Right," he says. "Okay. Good luck today, Tolly." Something's bothering him.

"You too," I tell him, vowing to ask him about it later.

Another few steps, and I've made it to the eighteen-year-old section. I've never stood so close to the stage before; I can see the pattern on Mavors Majors's gaudy orange tie. I can also see my girlfriend, standing towards the back with some of her friends. I straighten my suit jacket and put on a bright smile.

"Sorry I'm late." Summer greets me with a kiss. One of her friends whistles. Someone else shushes her.

"Hey, babe." Summer says when she pulls back. "Ready to be done with this crap forever?"

"More than ready," I say, even though I know it won't end for me until Ryla makes it through her seventh reaping unharmed. "But the real question is, are you ready for our celebratory dinner tonight? I'll cook something fancy, like turkey. We could even splurge on sweets if you want; I think I have enough saved, if we stop by the bakery on the way home—" I trail off when Summer's smile grows thin.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I'm excited! Let's have dinner. We're making this work."

"We're making this work." I say more quietly, a bit embarrassed to be saying it in front of her friends. But if it makes her feel better about things, I'll say it whenever she wants. She takes my hand, just as Mavors Majors grasps the microphone in his sky-blue hands.

"Hello, District Seven!" Mavors's voice is breathy, as if he's just had a scare. It's almost ironic; he looks much more frightened than Summer, or even Katsura, when we should be the ones with chattering teeth and knocking knees.

 _Stay positive_ , I remind myself.

"I'd love to keep this short and sweet. Let's start with the ladies, shall we?" He looks to the audience, almost as if he's expecting a response from us. Behind him, Timber's gaunt face is as impassive as a piece of wood.

 _Just another day on the job_ , I imagine him thinking. The victor's mind is probably elsewhere, but it makes me feel a little better to put thoughts in his head.

"Avaline Bronson!" calls out Mavors. Summer loosens her death-grip on my hand.

"I think I know her!" whispers one of her friends. "No wait, I'm thinking of Avaline Brown."

"Where is she?" asks Summer just as a tall girl with her hair in two dark braids emerges from our section, on the other side of the aisle. Visibly shaking, she makes it about halfway to the steps before she bursts into tears.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Ryla and Fey are safe. Summer is safe. Avaline Bronson is not, but I don't know her, so I try not to think about it.

"Welcome, Avaline!" Mavors greets her when she reaches the stage. "How does it feel to be representing your district this year?" Avaline responds by sticking one of her braids in her mouth.

"Gross," whispers Summer.

"Well then, why don't we move on?" Mavors straightens his collar and moves toward the other reaping bowl. The girl behind him continues to chew nervously on her hair, tears still rolling down her cheeks. The escort plunges his hand into the boys' bowl, emerging with another name almost immediately.

 _Not Nax. Not Katsura. Not Nax. Stay positive. Not Katsura._

"Ptolemy Barrington!"

He pronounces it with a hard _P_ , a noise like he's spitting. I almost don't recognize the sound of my own name. Then I see the way Summer's friends are looking at me. It takes a moment longer for my girlfriend and I to understand.

Shocked, she drops my hand like it's on fire. "It's _you_."

"It's me." I repeat. Heads start to turn, and my stomach does a flip.

 _Stay positive._

I stumble into the aisle, feeling lightheaded. I try to move quickly to the stairs, afraid I might pass out. When I nearly trip on the top step, Mavors takes a hold of me and leads me to the center of the stage, next to the hair-chewing girl.

"District Seven, your tributes in the thirty-ninth Hunger Games, Avaline Bronson and Puh-tolemy Barrington! Shake hands, tributes!"

Avaline puts out her right hand. Without thinking, I extend my left, my good hand. Awkwardly, she turns her hand upside down and we shake. It's a mess.

Neither of us says a word as we're escorted into the Justice Building.

…

"Katsura will help you through the first months, but with just two incomes, it still may not be enough." I say, my daily goal effectively thrown out the window. "Nax, stay in school for as long as you can, but I want you to prepare to start working when it looks like you'll need to. Okay?"

"You're not going to die," says the fourteen-year-old through his tears. I haven't seen him cry like this since he was a little kid. The sight of him forces my positivity outward.

"Course I won't." I ruffle his hair. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

Nax hugs me then, and Mom and Fey jump on as well. Ryla stands in the corner, her eyes red.

"Ryla?" She shakes her head almost violently, and my positivity falters.

"I can't…" She's choked up, and it's not just the cough. "I can't get you sick, Tolly."

In the next few moments, it sinks in that she's afraid to hug me goodbye, that my twelve-year-old sister is scared for my life; that's what finally brings my tears. I choke back a sob when I feel them running down my cheeks, making a strangled sound into my hands. Nax gapes at me. Fey hugs me harder.

"You can win this, Tolly," she says into my shoulder. "You have to win this."

…

When Kat walks through the door, I've begun to feel weak again. Watching me sway as I shift my weight, my friend grasps my arms, all but holding me upright.

"Listen to me, Tolly," he says, and I look into his eyes. "I know this doesn't look good. But you're the most optimistic person I know and dammit if you're not going to pull through this."

"Pulling through the reaping is one thing. But the Games?" I ask. "Kat, what am I going to do in the arena?"

Kat pulls me down, so we're seeing eye-to-eye. "Fight."

"I don't know how."

"Yes, you do!" Kat says. "You know how to swing an axe! Isn't that all you need?"

My throat feels tight. "I'll be up against kids Nax and Ryla's age."

"And volunteers who kill for fun!" Katsura counters. "But none of that matters. You don't have to justify anything you do in the Games, Tolly. I know you can make it through this. I don't know anyone in the district better suited to win this than you."

"Do you really think that?"

"You deserve to win," Kat says. Then he pulls me closer, leaning in so his lips brush mine.

With that simple motion, every part of my world has been effectively turned upside down. I jump backwards, disoriented, and my elbow whacks against the hard back of an ornate chair.

"Tolly…" Kat reaches out to steady me, but I twitch away from his arms.

"You just—why did you—?" I stammer, reaching up to touch my lips.

"It was a mistake." Kat panics, analyzing my reaction. "I'm sorry!"

"One minute," says the Peacekeeper at the door.

"I need to talk to Summer!" I shout, and he goes back into the hallway. The door shuts behind him with a heavy _click_. When I turn back to Katsura, he's looking down at the decorative carpet.

"Summer left, Tol," he says quietly. "She's gone."

"No, she's not." I sit down heavily on a velvet ottoman. "We're making it work."

"No one out there." The Peacekeeper is back. "Time's up."

I start to panic.

"Listen, deep breaths, it's okay. You deserve better than her."

 _Stay positive._

"She wouldn't do that!"

"She cheated on you, Tolly!"

"She cheated on someone _with_ me."

"Doesn't matter. She let you get hurt." Kat reaches for my bad hand, but I pull it away, bringing it close to my chest.

 _Stay positive._

"That wasn't her fault."

"Time's _up_ , boys." The Peacekeeper at the door is losing his patience.

"Tolly, I'm sorry." Kat steps back as I bury my face in my hands. "I'm so sorry."

 _Stay positive stay positive stay positive_

 **AN: WELL that ended up taking a different turn than I expected it to. Next chapter might be a while, I have to knock out some more college essays before I can come back to fanfiction. Hope you enjoyed, thanks again to Jess for Avaline, and drop me a line in the review box if you can!**


	6. District 8 Reaping: Chintz

**AN: Almost done with the reapings! Thanks as always for reading!**

 _Chintz Merier / District Eight Male_

I know I've made a mistake when I wake to a sliver of sunlight on my face.

 _Now you've done it_.

A bolt of white-hot panic flies through my chest. I've conditioned myself to wake before the crack of dawn each day, but I must have stayed up longer than I thought last night. Couldn't get my body out of panic-mode, with the reaping tomorrow.

 _Today_. With the reaping _today_.

Now that it's dawn, he'll be starting to stir in his bed. If I stay completely silent, I know I could slip out of the house without waking him. But whether or not I can actually achieve this, I don't know. It's a complicated task to be quiet when you're three hundred pounds and live in a house with floors made of creaky old wood.

Everything sounds louder to me in the quiet of the morning, and everything in my cramped space needs its turn bullying me. The ceiling tries to take me out as I stand too quickly. The floor complains under my feet as I cross the room. The bureau has shifted five inches from where I remember it, and shifts a few more when it strikes my big toe. I creak-and-squeak my way towards the door, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.

 _Open the door._ I demand myself. _Do it, you coward._

Assuring myself repeatedly that it's still too early for him to be awake, I scrape back a handful of dark hair from my face and decide I look presentable enough for the outside world. I don't have any special clothes for Reaping Day. Even if I could afford a suit in my size or had nimble enough fingers to create one myself, I probably wouldn't care to wear it. I've never once had a reason to dress up.

My heart thuds in my chest as I enter the hallway; for a moment, I'm worried this will be the sound that draws my father from his room. But this fear proves short-lived; the pounding in my ears stops abruptly when I find him sitting at the kitchen table.

Wide shoulders, bronze-colored skin, unruly black hair; I'm just a fatter version of him, he says. Bigger and broader, sure, but much weaker. And I guess that's evident; marks of defeat blotch my face, my arms, but all of his bruises stain his knuckles.

"Woke me up on a damn holiday," is the first thing he says to me.

"Sorry," I mutter, letting my hair fall back into my eyes.

"Sorry doesn't mean shit," he says. "You can apologize by showing me some respect."

"Yes, sir."

He leans forward in his chair, his eyes a bright, sickly hazel. "Chintz."

"Huh." I clear my throat, making a noise to show I'm listening. I know when he calls me by name, it's important. My father's voice is low and steady, and I hang onto every word, staring at my scuffed-up shoes as he lets it sink in.

"I want you to come straight home with our cut of the grain when the ceremony's done, hear me? I won't have you doing whatever the hell you do that brings you home after I've sacked out for the nigh—boy, look at me when I'm talkin' to you!"

I drag my gaze above the floor, peering at him through my hair.

"We're not gonna have a repeat of last year. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir." I understand that I won't have a chance of avoiding him tonight, yes.

"Good." He breaks eye contact and takes another sip of his coffee, which is my cue to leave. I retreat through the back door with such speed I nearly yank the thing off its hinges. Which would get me in some real trouble.

Once I'm out the door, I can finally relax. I may not be able to watch the sun rise on my way to town as I usually can, but at least I'm free until the reaping begins at three. However, with that optimistic thought comes the realization that I have nothing at all to do with that time.

I decide to spend it waiting for my friends, shading myself from the summer heat under the veranda of the fabric store. It's a narrow overhang, and I can't fit my entire body in the shade. But it's better than nothing.

Gora and Slater arrive in the square together around two o'clock. On a normal day, the three of us would be at work by now, stacking boxes of fabrics and preparing shipments for the Capitol. Sometimes, Gora jokes about climbing inside a few of those boxes and sending ourselves there, too. At least, I hope she's joking.

"Heya, Chintz." Slater claps me on the back, which makes me flinch. He does it to everybody, though, so I suppose I should feel glad to be included.

"Hi."

"Second to last year eligible, eh?" he nudges me. "We're gettin' close, big guy."

"Shut up about it!" Gora flicks him on the ear. "Some of us are still sixteen."

"Ah, what does it matter? We're all on the closer half to being finished with this business, I say that's cause for celebration." Slater throws us a grin. He's always looking for a reason to party. Not that we have much chance to with our demanding work schedules, but I have a feeling that Slater's got something else planned for tonight.

"I don't see any reason to celebrate." Gora always has to contradict everything Slater says. It's in her nature. "We've got one hell of a shift to welcome us back tomorrow."

Slater groans, because she's right. The factory that employs us just pumped out a fresh batch of Peacekeeper uniforms, and tomorrow we have to prepare the whole load for delivery, which means dawn-to-dusk hours in the shipping department.

"Maybe we should take our time off to relax while we can," Gora suggests. "Chintz, maybe you could teach us a new song."

"Ugh, not another one." Slater shudders. " _Chantilly Lace_ sounds like the elevator music they play on your way to hell. It doesn't make the hours go by any faster."

"That's just because it's old and you're sick of it. Chintz, you could teach everyone a better one, right?"

"I could do that," I tell her.

"Singing is dumb," Slater complains. Gora bursts into song.

" _CHANTILLY LACE AND A PRETTY FACE AND A PONYTAIL HANGIN' DOWN!_ "

"Agh!"

" _A WIGGLE AND A WALK AND A GIGGLE AND A TALK, MAKES THE WORLD GO ROUND, ROUND, ROUND!"_

"Stop it!" whines Slater.

"I'll teach you a new one." I tell him.

" _THERE AIN'T NOTHIN' IN THE WORLD LIKE A BIG-EYED GIRL—"_

"Shut the hell up, would you?" Gora ignores him, finishing the chorus before she skips off to join the sign-in line while it's still short. I follow a grumbling Slater after her, trying not to smile.

…

I hum along to the national anthem. We make a fair amount of music in District Eight, but these big brass bands are a whole different animal. Every time I hear the anthem's booming melody, it's like the first time. It's nice to listen to, despite all that it represents. Shriller to the senses is Banquo, the reedy Capitolite whose job it is to pick the tributes.

"I'll begin with the ladies," he says in his funny, clipped accent. "Miss Beatrice Reverend will be our female tribute this year."

I almost don't catch the name; I've never seen anyone more casual about the reaping ceremony than Banquo. Even for Capitolite escorts, I'd at least expect some excitement on the one day each year when their job is truly relevant.

He has to say it again. "Beatrice Reverend, make your way up to the stage."

I hear a commotion from the fifteen-year-old section; Slater and I turn our heads, along with most of the rest of the district, to see a skinny blonde girl in an old, faded dress, shuffle out into the aisle. She's trembling, quiet tears running down her cheeks. I stare at the ground, my gaze repelled like a magnet at the sight of her distress.

Slater nudges me. I don't look at him.

"Now I will be picking the male tribute." As usual, Banquo is all business. He picks from the top, selects his tributes based on the very first slip that touches his hand. "This year's male tribute is Chintz Merier," he says into the microphone.

 _Chintz Merier._

I'm not sure I have it in me to be shocked. Slater definitely does. His jaw practically brushes the ground as he gapes at me in alarm. Without looking at him, I push my way into the aisle, my shoulders rigid.

It takes effort to keep myself upright all the way to the stage. Everyone is looking at me; even when I don't return their gazes, their eyes bore into the back of my head until I'm close to exploding. Looking for a distraction, I steal a glance at myself on the big screen, and my expression isn't just deadpan; it's dead.

The wooden stairs groan as I climb them, reminding me vaguely of my bedroom floor. Oddly enough, I don't find myself longing for my cramped room, for my father's tiny cabin. I find I'm not feeling much of anything as I cross the stage to stand with my district partner. The girl's mouth falls open when she sees the size of me.

"Hello." I say numbly.

"Just shake her hand," Banquo tells me. "We don't have time for this nonsense."

I extend my arm; Beatrice's hand disappears in mine when we shake, but her grip is strong as steel. The initial fear lessening, she looks me in the eyes, but I can't return her gaze.

The two of us are led, side-by-side, into the Justice Building. A pair of Peacekeepers escort Beatrice through one door, and me through another. I jam the door with my foot before my guard can close it. He reacts as if I'm making a break for it, grabbing my arms with a shout, forcing me back into my room in an attempt to subdue me.

"I'm not running!" I tell him.

"Then what do you want?" he says, panting with the effort of having to haul me over to the couch. I detach his gloves carefully, rubbing my sore arm.

"Don't let anyone in." I say without looking at him. "I don't want to see anyone."

This makes him pause. "Strange request for a tribute."

The Peacekeeper straightens up his uniform. I wait for his answer, but he doesn't give me one. He simply walks out and returns to his post at the door. For a time I wonder if he's planning to ignore my appeal, but the question resolves itself in a few minutes when Slater and Gora are denied entrance to my holding room.

Gravitating towards the room's far wall, I can hear my friends' distress when they're turned away. They call my name, knowing I'm just beyond the door, but I don't respond. I back into the corner, bent low as if I'm shielding myself from a storm.

 _If I face them, I'll have to face him._

And sure enough, there he is. He yells for me, too, but it's a different kind of unhappiness; an angry kind. I shrink away from his voice, pretending I'm already on a train, speeding away from Eight at many-many miles per hour.

And just like that, his voice disappears with the suddenness of Banquo's reapings. He's gone, and I am alone. Beatrice must have a lot of visitors, because I am left by myself for quite a while, wondering if I'll die before I see my father again.

It comes as a shock, the realization that I don't know what I'm hoping for.

 **AN: Next chapter: Tybalt Egan, our District Nine boy and last POV chapter! Also, after the chap I'll be introducing a sponsor system!**


	7. District 9 Reaping: Tybalt

**AN: Looks like we've reached the final reaping chapter! Sorry it's taken so long to get to this point; most, if not all, of the submitted characters will make their first appearance in the next two chapters. Thanks for reading!**

 **(Side note: "Ruy" rhymes with "Guy", "Tybalt" is "Tibbult" not "Tye-balt")**

 _Tybalt Egan / District Nine Male_

Sometimes I like to practice my smile in the mirror, just to make sure I'm still doing it right. You can't be too careful in times like these; in Nine, it's noticeably harder to pretend to be happy in the weeks surrounding the reaping.

"Why can't you sleep in for once?" Ruy, annoyed and groggy, shields his eyes from the light.

I let the rain drum against the window for a moment, absorbing my roommate's displeasure. I do my best to be cordial and nice to Ruy at all times, but most days, I can feel the hatred oozing off him like a scented candle. It's a real pang to my self-esteem, because although he's kind of mean, I still think he's great.

"Early bird catches the worm," I tell him. "That's what my mom used to tell me."

"Second mouse gets the cheese, my aunt always said." Ruy mutters, rolling over.

 _He responded!_ I feel like we've made a breakthrough today. My spirits lifting, I fire a perfect smile at his back.

"That's a nice saying, too."

"Shut up. I didn't say anything." And it's gone. It's been two weeks since he moved in; why can't I make this guy my friend? I'm perfectly likable.

With an audible sigh, I move past my roommate and creak open the door, crossing into the empty hallway. It's pleasantly quiet in the normally turbulent orphanage dorms, save for the patter of the rain against our windows. I must be the first one up again, but I can't blame the other kids for sleeping in. A good portion of them are eligible to be sent into the Games today.

Little do they know, a few extra hours of sleep won't change that.

…

I wait under cover until people start to gather in the street, a motley mess of umbrellas and parkas. In just my thin cardigan, I'm definitely starting to feel the chill of the weather. I decide the best group of people to infiltrate is one with plenty of umbrellas, and lucky for me, they're not hard to find.

"Hi, guys!" I insert myself into the animated conversation, seeking out faces I recognize. I find quite a few.

"Tybalt!"

"Hey, man!"

I've walked with this group before; I try to recall as many names as I can from my memory. Danno. Barbra. Rigby. Arva. Shiloh. And some others I don't know. All kids from school, none from the orphanage. Most of them bear umbrellas and jackets, well equipped to survive the weather. I feel lucky to have these friends.

That is, until I catch sight of Ruy, braving the storm by himself.

 _So he's finally gotten out of bed_. Part of me wants to ignore him; he's been rude to me. Why should I keep trying to please him? But the more overwhelming part of me can't help but want to have another go at him. I honestly don't think I'll be able to stop until we're best friends.

I dismiss myself quietly from my friend group and run to join my roommate.

"Hey, Ruy! Ruy!" He pulls his jacket closer around himself when he sees me, his curly hair sopping wet and plastered to his forehead. The weather renders him much less intense-looking, less guarded. To me, he almost looks kind of adorable; if you can say that about a person who's half a foot taller than you.

"Please leave me alone."

I stop short. "You won't even give me a chance! I'm your roommate. I just want to be your friend!"

"I didn't ask for a friend," Ruy tells me curtly. "I asked to be left alone."

"Sometimes what we want and what we need are two completely different things." I try to make it seem like I know my stuff. "We all get how it is for you now. I know it's been hard on you, losing your aunt."

Ruy's expression hardens. "Don't talk about her."

"What, you're the only one allowed to bring her up?"

"Yes, I am," he says defensively. "How would you like it if I asked about your dead family?"

I blink at him, unsure of what to say. "I'd be, uh, happy to answer any questions you had, I guess. It was so long ago, I don't really mind talking about—"

"Fine. _I_ mind," he cuts in. "It's been two weeks, Tybalt. I _don't_ want to talk to you about it."

"We can talk about other things."

"I don't want to talk to you at all," he clarifies. That how he's always been, for the two weeks that I've known him. Talking to him is like swordplay; he parries with questions and blocks with answers.

 _Give him time_. I tell myself to ease my frustration. _He can't avoid you forever._

And so I leave him, jogging to catch up with my big group again. I walk to the reaping under the cover of their umbrellas, talking about their annoying siblings and their summer jobs in the fields. After signing in, all of us stand together in the sixteen-year-old section. I catch sight of Ruy, shivering among the sixteens on the opposite side of the aisle, but this time I don't give in to my whims. Today I can pat myself on the back for having some self-control, but it's still hard to pretend nothing's bothering me as my friends and I discuss the new escort.

Angusta Svelte is narrow as a rail and looks so skinny she could snap. Nine's only victor, one-eyed Whitaker Kovach, looks like he's afraid to shatter her arm when he shakes her hand. Her voice is delicate and graceful, albeit quite hard to hear over the worsening rain.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's so very nice to be representing the Capitol in District Nine this fine afternoon!" Angusta says airily as we strain our ears to hear her. Luckily, she leaves it at that, plunging her hand into a waterlogged reaping bowl without even telling us which one it is.

I bite my cheek. _Not me not me not me._

"Perry Killam!" she says, and I heave a sigh of relief. I've never heard that name before in my life.

However, I'm still only vaguely sure of whether or not I still need to be worried for myself. Especially when Perry comes forward from Ruy's side of the sixteen-year-old section, and I find myself unsure if the selected tribute is a boy or a girl. They're fairly tall, with broad-ish shoulders and a flat chest, but their hair is long, and there's a sort of softness about their face that makes it difficult to tell from a distance.

I suppose I'll find out when Angusta calls the other name, then.

"Hello, Perry!" The escort greets the new tribute. They're shivering slightly, whether from cold or fear I don't know, but their expression is blank.

"Let's move on to the boys, shall we?" Angusta asks us then, and my heart skips a beat. Barbra and Arva and the other girl all look at each other, relieved.

 _I can't believe you let yourself think you were safe._

I watch the escort's skinny arm dig around in the half-flooded boys bowl until she finds a slip of paper that hasn't been reduced to a soggy pulp. This one has remained crisp, dry, and legible in the center of the pack, and I'm terrified to figure out if I'm the unlucky sap whose name is written on it.

"Tybalt Egan!"

The sound of my name sucks every bit of air from my lungs. Everyone I've ever spoken to immediately cranes their necks to see my face, but for once, I don't want them to find me. This has to be some kind of mistake. I feel myself start to choke, tears burning at my eyes.

" _Could Tybalt Egan come up here, please?_ " Angusta's voice barely reaches my row, but it breaks me out of my stupor. Bleary-eyed, there's only one thing I can do.

I burst into the aisle, running for the back of the square, but the Peacekeepers get to me first. The tears are coming full-force now, my composure cracked and leaking like the clouds as they drag me to the stage. I kick weakly, but I know I'm outmatched.

"Hello there… _you_ …" Angusta grimaces slightly as they set me down next to Perry, bawling into my hands.

What must they think of me now?

…

I thought I'd get a lot of visitors, even after I broke down onstage. I thought it wouldn't matter that I didn't have any family; that my friends would come and comfort me in my darkest hour. But I must have been wrong about that, too, because no one shows up to say goodbye.

The tears are still going strong when Ruy appears in front of me.

"Sorry I'm late," he says to the chair, his dirty coat looking out of place among the ornate decorations. "I thought there'd be a line."

This just makes me cry harder.

Ruy's mouth pulls into a grimace. "Hey, wait—"

"I-I spent time with so many people," I choke out. "I had so many friends. But you're the only one who showed up to say goodbye, and you don't even like me!"

I cover my face with my hands again, masking my shame. Pretending that he isn't here and it's Danno or Rigby or one of my friends instead.

"Tybalt!" My roommate nearly shouts, effectively shutting me up. "They weren't your friends."

"Y-yes, they were. I'd talk with them…"

"I know. I saw you," he says in his curt way.

"Then what—?"

"You did that with everyone," he tells me, gesturing. "And if you try to please everybody, you don't please anybody. That's what my aunt always said. You know what that means?"

"Kind of…" I look down.

"It means that kindness doesn't mean anything if that's just the way you'd treat anyone."

I blink at him. "That's not true!"

"I don't care." Ruy shrugs. "It's what I think. And I'm not here to give you friendship advice, either. I'm here to tell you to pull yourself together."

This being the most I've ever heard him say at one time, all I can do is look at him.

Ruy avoids my gaze. "You're not like this, Tybalt. I don't want to see you like this."

I wipe my nose with my sleeve, blinking the tears out of my eyes. "If you're just here to tell me I looked a mess out there, you can save yourself some time and get out."

"Is that what you want?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's not what you need." I gape at him; I'm not used to having my words thrown back at me, especially by someone who normally prefers monosyllabic replies to conversation.

"Then tell me, Ruy, what do I need?" I ask him bitterly.

"Hope," he says. "Need someone to tell you that fighting's only half the Games. Other half's politics, and you'll be good at that."

"Who cares?" I say. "Fifty percent is a failing grade."

"It's more than most of the others." Ruy points out. "You're smart, friendly, good-looking. You'll get loads of sponsors, but not like this."

"You think I'm good-look—?" I start to ask, but he cuts me off again.

"If you want to win, you'll have to do what you do best."

"What's that?" I ask carefully.

"Be fake."

My mouth drops open. "I am not—"

"Just do it." Ruy's eyes are glued to the floor. "Do whatever you have to."

It takes a minute for his advice to sink in, but it leaves me feeling a lot less like I want to cry, a lot more like I want to start training. I realize this is the first nice thing he's done for me; for anyone, as far as I know. And it feels special. Maybe he's not as wrong as I thought.

"It's still a shame you don't want to be my friend," I tell him after a moment. "Because you're good at it."

"You don't need to be friends with everybody." Ruy says. "Soon you're gonna have enemies, too. Are you ready for that?"

I'm not ready, but it seems pointless to hope he's wrong.

 **AN: And that wraps up the reaping chapters and the introduction of Luetis's POV characters! Now seems like as good a time as any to introduce the sponsor system. I've never made one of these before, so bear with me.**

 **How it works: When you review this story, you receive a certain number of points, which you can later exchange for food and supplies to send to the tributes in the arena! Once the Games are in full swing, anyone can send supplies to any tribute, even if you have not submitted to this story! (However, it will still go through the tribute's mentor first, so the gift may not show up immediately). Here's the point system as it is now:**

 **1 Review = 5 points**

 **1 Review + Chapter Question = 10 points**

 **1 Favorite = 10 points**

 **1 Follow = 20 points**

 **And the item prices, although they are subject to change!**

 **FOOD/WATER: Crackers (10), dried fruit (20), beef jerky (20), soup (20), bread from a tribute's district (40), cast iron pan (30), empty canteen (15), full canteen (30), flint/steel (fire starter) (40), matches (50), water purification tablets (50)**

 **SHELTER/CLOTHES: Sleeping bag (50), tarp (20), tent (80), hammock (30), rope (20), duct tape (10), change of clothes (50), raincoat (40), jacket (60), sunglasses (20), empty backpack (10)**

 **MEDICINE: Basic first aid kit (40), heavy-duty first aid kit (100), bandages (20), burn medicine (20), sewing kit (20), antiseptic solution (60)**

 **NAVIGATION/HUNTING: Arena map (50), night-vision goggles (50), compass (20), walkie talkies (100), fishing rod (60), flares (30), flashlight (20), net (20), multi-tool (60), pepper spray (50)**

 **SPECIAL ITEM REQUEST (100): Please specify in your review.**

 **I've also calculated everyone's current point balance:**

 **calebbeers21: 20**

 **CelticGames4: 60**

 **ColMikeFuser: 10**

 **CrissKenobie-the-Numenorean: 20**

 **Declan42: 20**

 **emeraldfire000: 20**

 **Emrys Holmes: 25**

 **HogwartsDreamer113: 40**

 **Wetstar: 15**

 **That about sums up the system, I think. If I've left anything out or you have any questions, PM me or ask in a review! I'll end this lengthy AN with the first chapter question. You don't have to answer these questions, but I'm hoping they'll let me know what you want to see in future chapters.**

 **Chapter Question: Who was your favorite POV? Favorite district partner?**

 **As always, thanks for reading! - KTGAP**


	8. Train Rides: To-may-to, To-mah-to

**AN: It's been a while! Thanks for bearing with me as I sort out homework and band and college applications. There's a lot on my plate right now, especially with NaNoWriMo coming up, so Luetis updates might be an endangered species for a while, until December at the latest. That's not to say there won't be new chapters in the next few months. They'll just be less frequent until I can get my applications in and line up some writing time. Hopefully, this will be soon! But until then, here are the train rides:**

 _Arden Borynski / District Two Female_

Francis Brown and I don't exchange words until the train doors are shut behind us, forming a solid barrier between my district partner and I and the hordes of well-wishers gathered at the station to see us off. Once we're alone, I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

"That was an experience." Francis remarks, running a hand through his scruffy blond hair. He looks as if he's just stepped off the wildest ride at the carnival; thrilled, but definitely relieved.

"No kidding," I say, stretching as I take in our new environment. The space is much more luxurious than I expected, but in a different way than the Justice Building's tribute sitting-rooms; the train's streamlined interior has a contemporary elegance to it, as opposed to the more ornate décor of the place where I said goodbye to Mico and Deccan. Somehow, I already miss them.

 _Calm down. It's only been an hour._

I thought my mind would be occupied by the Games from the moment I climbed onto that stage, but since I climbed up to that stage, I've been thinking about anything but. Luckily for me, another door opens, and my best bet to rein in my focus again crosses into the car and meets our eyes with a judgmental glare.

 _Penelope March, winner of the 2_ _nd_ _Hunger Games._

Francis recognizes her in the same instant; we both look on with admiration as the woman brushes back her gray-streaked hair, staring at us with eyes as tough and cold as frozen dirt. How lucky we've been to volunteer on a year when Two's first victor is mentoring; she's the perfect person to advise us before we go into the arena.

It almost slips my mind entirely to identify the second mentor. Ironically, his appearance is much more memorable, with a gleaming silver suit to contrast Penelope's darker, plainer clothes. I recognize the man as Claudius Carr, victor of the 8th Games, known for his Capitol-chic blue hair and questionable emotional stability. Maybe a less desirable teacher than Penelope, but another experienced one nevertheless. I consider myself very fortunate to be in the presence of them both.

"What do you say, Claude?" Penelope breaks our awed silence, looking up at her broad-shouldered companion. "Do you see a future victor standing before us?"

As if realizing for the first time that he's in the presence of his tributes, Claude gives my partner and I a hasty once-over and mutters something under his breath. I hope it was something positive.

"You're right about that." Penelope responds to his incoherent comment, adjusting her glasses as she looks at us. "What surprises me the most is that we seem to have wound up with two boys this year. What an interesting clerical oversight that was."

Claude mutters his assent, and I feel a wave of chagrin.

"I'm not a boy."

Penelope raises an eyebrow. "In that case, you'd better make sure the Capitol knows that early on. The people won't support a tribute who confuses them, you know."

I feel the back of my neck burning against my collar. Two minutes in, and I've already done something wrong.

"The Capitol doesn't care what she's wearing." Francis speaks up. "They'll like her just fine, as long as she can swing her sword."

"It's daggers, actually." I say under my breath, oddly vexed that he's standing up for me. Claude responds with the most coherent thought he's strung together since we've met.

"To-may-to, to-mah-to."

Penelope's eyeglasses gleam at us; she's locked her gaze onto my district partner, whose confidence seems to have shrunken back a few meters since his uninvited comment. The old victor, on the other hand, seems almost to grow a few inches taller.

"You think you can tell me something I don't know about the Capitol?" She points an accusing finger at his chest, and unconsciously, he shakes his head. "I didn't think so. Don't argue with me, kid. Just because I started with Pretty Boy doesn't mean I'm not going to nail you for those _things_ in your ears."

Francis looks alarmed, reaching up to touch his head. I look at him, wondering what she's talking about. Then I see it; one tan-colored hearing aid, partially hidden underneath a clump of blond hair by his ear. I assume he's got another to match on the other side, but it's the first time I've noticed them.

"I can function well enough," he says defensively. "I can still shoot."

"How're those powered?" asks Claude in a low voice.

"Batteries." Francis looks at him. "I brought extras."

Penelope's lip curls. "You're kidding yourself if you think those are going to last for more than a week in the arena."

"They might not," Francis says. "But I will."

"Real tributes don't come with hardware." The old victor shakes her head. Claude looks almost apologetic, but his gaze is fixed firmly on something outside the window, his fingers tapping restlessly against the leg of his silver slacks.

"Poor Claudie." Penelope looks at him. "See, you two have already made him upset."

"He looks fine to me." I say, amazed at how quickly my admiration has turned to disgust. Francis adjusts the volume of his hearing aids, averting his eyes from the pair of victors. Penelope March doesn't turn away from Claude.

"Buddy, we've got just a stellar batch of tributes this year," she says to him, placing her hand on his silver jacket. "Tell me, do you want the cross-dresser or the deaf archer?"

Claude continues to stare out the window, his eyes almost blank. Penelope's expression changes slightly.

"Claude." She gives a light tug on his jacket, and it seems to draw him back a little from the view. "Stay with me, please. Which tribute do you want?"

I bite my lip, although whether I'm too angry to speak or too afraid, I don't know. I'm too disappointed with Penelope to feel any pity for Claude. As the light returns to his dark brown eyes, the eighth victor looks from me to Francis.

"I want Arden," he says. And it's done.

...

 _Ptolemy "Tolly" Barrington / District Seven Male_

Our mentor sits across from us with his chair pulled back slightly from the table, as if he's ready to jump up at a moment's notice; such a stance immediately puts me on edge, as if I'm entering a dangerous situation.

 _Stay positive._ The words feel more like an echo than a mantra now.

"Avaline and Ptolemy, is it?" the victor asks, dark eyebrows furrowing as he studies us.

"The P is silent," I say reflexively. "You can just call me Tolly, though."

"Alright." His gaze shifts from one tribute to the other; Avaline hasn't said a word to me yet, despite my attempts to make polite conversation. Timber Rice is no more welcoming a figure. The look in his brown eyes as he takes us in is not altogether unfriendly, but all of his mannerisms warn me to stay away. Every part of him looks clenched, from his fists to his teeth; it's not hard to guess what's agitating him.

"You won six years ago, didn't you?" I ask.

The young victor nods stiffly. "Yes. The thirty-third Games."

"Was that the valley Games?" I jump slightly; I've never heard Avaline speak before. She looks at Timber intently, hands folded in her lap. "The arena with all of those wildflowers?"

The thought of the colorfully furnished arena clearly doesn't help to relax our wound-up mentor, but he doesn't let her question go unanswered.

"They thought ratings might go up if they made the arena more appealing to look at." Timber says swiftly. "Listen, we're not here to talk about my Games. I understand that this is a lot to handle, and if it makes it easier to start a conversation, go for it. But do it on your own time. If you have any questions, ask them now."

Met with silence, I watch the young victor mouth something without making a sound. Then he does it again; he moves only slightly, but this time, I catch it: _ask them now_. He's repeating his words. A bit odd, but everybody has their quirks, and I've been told that Timber Rice has more than a few. In fact, I've heard some interesting rumors about him since his victory; being Seven's only living victor renders him a common topic of conversation, and his penchant for eccentric behavior doesn't help his reputation. I've never experienced him in person until today, and I'm not sure whether or not the things I've heard apply to his mentoring process, but I suppose I'm close to finding out.

"I have a question." This is Avaline, fiddling with the end of one of her braids. "How much time do we have? Will we start training as soon as we get to the Capitol?"

"Your training starts right now." Timber tells her. "I'm about to show you the best way to ensure success in the Games, especially once they've narrowed the field."

"What's that?" I ask, suddenly curious.

Timber stands. "Know your enemy."

Silently, Avaline and I follow him to the other side of the car, to the projector. When the image of a wide, black stage flickers to life on the car's flat wall, I recognize the program.

"The reapings recap?"

Timber nods. "The recap is the most powerful tool you have during this stage of the Games. Use it to get to know your competition. Form your first impressions. Garner any information you can before you reach the Capitol. Trust me, you'll need it."

Unsurprisingly enough, I find that I do trust him. Maybe because he's our mentor, and I'm supposed to rely on his knowledge. Maybe because he's offering solid, straightforward advice when I need it most. Maybe because he looks a little like Kat. Nevertheless, something compels me to take a seat on that couch and watch the wall. Avaline sits as far from me as she can manage, while Timber stands behind us both.

As is usual for the upper districts, two volunteers step forward from One: a tall, muscular boy who urges the audience to cheer him on as he reaches the stage, and a copper-haired girl with a brilliant smile.

"Paris and Opal. Interesting names they've got in One," I say to Avaline, who sticks her hair in her mouth again.

Next, we watch a straight-faced girl with a crew cut step up from Two, in a loose-fitting suit with a tie the color of fresh blood. After that, there's a stocky guy with a bandage on his eyebrow who volunteers nearly a full minute after the male tribute's name is called.

From Three there's a lanky, greasy-looking kid with a pointy nose who bites his lip to contain his shivering, and a little girl who, for whatever reason, won't stop smiling.

"She has to understand what's happening, right?" I ask. "I mean, I guess she's at least twelve, so maybe she's just trying to be smart about it."

"Hmh," says Avaline.

From Four a tan, muscular guy steps forward from the seventeen-year-old section, followed by a blonde girl dressed in orange, just before the reaping turns into a footrace. In the end, a heavyset girl in a sea-green dress beats the blonde volunteer to the stage by only a second or two.

"Imagine what would have happened if she'd caught up with her," I remark.

"Mhm," says Avaline. I turn to her as the wall shifts over to District Five.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?" I venture. "We don't have to talk. I don't mind."

"Eyes on the screen, Tolly." Timber says, but his attention is elsewhere now that Mavors has re-entered the car, in all of his plump blue glory. Our mentor bristles like a threatened cat when he sees the escort, moving swiftly to the other side of the room.

Mavors gets the picture after a moment, making an exasperated sound and going back through the door. Satisfied, Timber reclaims his position behind the couch.

"That was weird." I mutter. My district partner looks troubled, fiddling with her braids and looking anywhere but at me. "What?"

"Listen, it's nothing personal. Really," she assures me. "I just don't think I can talk to you like this."

I shift in my seat. "I understand that. We don't have to pretend we're not in a terrible situation, just—"

"Or at all. I don't think we should talk at all."

I blink at her. "What? Why not?"

"I'm sorry. Like I said, it's not you." She shakes her head, avoiding my eyes. "I just don't think I can afford to get attached."

There's a short laugh from above us, and we both look up. For the first time, Timber is smiling.

"Smart girl."

...

 _Caph Schuyler / District Six Female_

The tributes from Five are shaking onstage; the boy squints out at the audience, rubbing tears from his eyes, while the girl looks on wide-eyed, like a deer in the headlights. Before I can feel too upset for them, though, the scene shifts abruptly to my district. Whoever edited this year's recap wasn't one for easy transitions.

I look much younger in the video, losing my composition as I shuffle my way to the steps. I didn't do a very good job of concealing my fear, so I'm almost happy that our mentor isn't around to comment.

Almost.

"I'm sure Axel will be around in a minute," Tiberine assures me with an empty smile. "He gets terribly train-sick, he told me. Rushed right to his room the minute we left the station."

"That was an hour ago." I say. "Should I check on him?"

Tiberine's smile fades slightly. "No…no, we shouldn't do that. Let's just leave him be for now, alright? I'm sure he'll come out when he's ready."

"He's never going to be ready." Connor says without looking over, his eyes glued to the screen as he watches himself volunteer. Tiberine opens her mouth to respond, but then closes it again. I decide there's no point in arguing further. Axel Feynman is Six's only victor; he'll have to meet us eventually.

The two from District Seven are older kids, seventeen or eighteen. The girl is very tall and wears her hair in braids; the boy is olive-skinned and has some kind of bracelet or harness—it's tough to see, projected on the wall—on his right hand.

The girl from Eight wears a long, faded dress that must have belonged to at least three family members before her, but she quickly fades from my awareness once I see the sheer size of her district partner. Easily the largest tribute in the field so far, he towers over the girl in the dress, bruises mottling his dark arms, clumps of black hair hanging in his eyes. I know he probably wants to be here about as much as I do, but that won't stop me from avoiding him at all costs in the arena.

As the tributes from Nine are called, I turn to Tiberine again.

"Are you sure he's still sick?" I ask her. "I could go and knock on his door. It'd only take a second."

"Oh, dear…" Tiberine looks troubled. "You stay here, Caph, Connor. I'd better do it myself. He can be rather…" She searches for the right word. "… _temperamental_ , when he's not feeling well. I'll just be a minute."

With that, she throws back her long hair and makes her way to the back of the car. As the door closes behind her, we watch the boy from Nine make a break for it.

The reapings start to pass much more quickly after Tiberine leaves; I miss entire sections, wondering why she's taking so long to bring him over. The girl from Ten shoots the camera a glare that's both ruthless and determined. The two from Eleven shake hands, the younger girl reaching up to meet the hand of the tall, broad-shouldered boy. The dark-haired pair from Twelve complement each other in an even more upsetting way, the boy bursting into tears while the girl looks on blankly.

Finally, as the screen fades to an image of the Capitol seal, the door bursts open. A stocky man in his thirties with a scruffy beard stalks across the dining room, followed by Tiberine, who totters unsteadily behind him in her tall, tall heels.

"I said you can take your time!" she calls after him. Wordlessly, Axel drags a chair from the table, letting it bump down the step on his way to our couch. Something about the way he moves makes me afraid, but not quite as much as my district partner. Connor's face has gone white; he looks as if he's ready to jump from his seat and flee.

"Hello, kids." The victor slides his chair in front of us and sits backwards on it, folding his arms on top. The glow of the projected seal flickers dimly on his face, but we only stare at him, neither of us able to work up the nerve to speak.

"Right." Axel looks unimpressed. "Let's get this over with."

"Axel, please…" Tiberine purses her lips, but the victor ignores her.

"I've been in this business for a long time. Fifteen years, actually. Can either of you geniuses figure out how many tributes I've mentored in that time?"

"Thirty," I whisper involuntarily.

"Oh, good, this one can _count_." Axel smacks the back of his chair, and Connor jumps. "I'll bet you can answer this one, too. How many of those thirty lucky kiddos do you think made it _out_ of the arena?"

I wait a little longer for this one. "Zero."

"That's right. None." Axel stands up, hoisting his chair up as well. "Therefore, it makes no difference whether I mentor you two or not. I'm glad we had this talk."

For a moment, we're all too alarmed to speak. I struggle to get a word out to him.

"Wh-why are you doing this?" I ask with a squeak, turning around in my seat as he passes me. Connor stares at the wall.

Axel looks back at me as he replaces his chair. "Because, female tribute number sixteen, I've mentored for fifteen years without a victor, and it's time to be honest with myself. I must be doing something wrong. That's it. Obviously, _I_ can't mentor my way out of a paper bag, and that's why, year after _fucking year_ ," He picks up the chair again, only to slam it back down against the carpet. The noise is dull, but the impact rattles the silverware. "my kids keep dying on me."

I stare at him with a mixture of shock and outrage. "So you're giving up on us?"

"No." Axel shoots me a look of pure contempt. "I'm giving you realistic expectations."

"Axel!" Tiberine shouts as he turns his back.

"You're welcome," he says. The door slams shut.

 **Chapter Question: Of Claude, Penelope, Timber, and Axel, who was your favorite mentor?**


	9. Chariots: Capitol Couture

**AN: Happy Thanksgiving-ish! Hopefully this vacation will give me some writing time. Maybe enough to get to the arena itself? Fingers crossed.**

 _Brina Whaley / District Four Female_

I feel as if the Remake Center and I were made for each other. My stylist, Vitta, clothes me in a floor-length white gown that appears to be made of sea foam, topping off the look with a layer of shimmery blue powder over my newly made-up features. My reaping ensemble seems regretfully drab in comparison. I may be able to make myself attractive by Four's standards, but with her practiced, long-nailed fingers, Vitta transforms me into some kind of ethereal mermaid bride, a creature worthy of the Capitol. The finished product renders my reflection unrecognizable, but I relish every step of the process.

Beckett sucks in a breath when I climb onto our chariot; shirtless and powdered with the same shimmery blue dust, he could easily be my undersea suitor. Gay or not, I expect the first thing out of his mouth to be something along the lines of _Brina, that outfit takes my breath away_ , but that was obviously too much to hope for.

"You shouldn't have volunteered for Talay," he says, making an effort to keep his eyes locked on mine. Feeling attacked, I step away, placing a hand on the side of the chariot.

"You too?" I tilt my head, flashing him a powder-blue pout. "Couldn't you have led with this, when we met? Or on the train, when Delta Saunders was yelling at me for having the balls to volunteer?"

Beckett looks torn, if only for a moment. "You should listen to what she says. Delta and Ronan are two of Four's best ment—"

"I know that," I wave him aside, disappointed. "I still don't see the point of her chewing me out for what I've done."

"It wasn't fair."

"I've already done it." I argue. "It's not like I can go back to Four, fall to my knees in front of Talay and they'll just allow her to take my place in the arena, Beckett, it doesn't work like that."

"I know it doesn't." I hate the way he looks at me, as if he's trying to figure me out. If he wants to know why I volunteered, all he has to do is ask.

There's a razor-edged response brewing in my mind, something hard-hitting and personal, and I'm almost ready to spit it at my district partner when another pair of tributes catches my eye. It's the two from Twelve, late from their much-needed makeovers, walking together to their chariot at the back of the pack. The girl's dark hair is swept into a rather childish-looking updo, the boy's slicked back against his skull with something that smells so strongly of oranges I can pinpoint its source from up on my chariot. I lean over the side a little, propping myself up on my elbows.

"Nice pigtails," I call down. The girl looks up, her somber resting expression morphing into one of surprise. Her partner stops behind her, clearly sizing us up.

"My stylist's choice," the girl says, eyeing me cautiously. She can't be older than thirteen. Her face is peaked, even with makeup, and she's racked with the telltale signs of starvation; sunken cheeks, skinny arms, dreadful taste. No healthy girl would let a half-sane stylist force her into that monstrosity of a dress. Part of me wonders if advertising life in Twelve as a wildly effective diet plan would make it seem like a more appealing place to live.

"Least someone's excited for your first day of tribute school," I tell her. "It's a special day for all of us. Would it kill you to smile a little?" Both of the Twelves flinch a little at my choice of words. I try to shrug apologetically, but it's harder to hold a straight face now that I know what I've done.

"Kenna, let's go." The district partner, who looks even younger, tugs on her sleeve. I flash him the smile of a breaching shark, and he freezes like a statue.

"Why leave now? We haven't even introduced ourselves." I say. "I'm from Four. My name is Brina, and this is my district partner Beckett. And you are?"

"Leaving," says Kenna carefully, turning to walk briskly away. "C'mon, Gareth."

"Yeah. Leaving!" the boy repeats, breaking out of his paralysis. "D-don't bother us again, Careers!" Then he scampers after his district partner.

I straighten up, more or less satisfied. Beckett is looking at me like I'm fishing with a rubber hook.

"What?" I ask him.

"Nothing," he says. "Just never been one for intimidation tactics, myself."

"Why not?" I ask, feeling defensive again. "One of your Hunger Games History fun-factoids proves it doesn't work?"

"Sort of."

" _Sort of?_ "

He shrugs, dusting something invisible off of his glimmering shoulder. "Intimidation does work, but it's also redundant. Aren't they scared enough of us already?"

I throw him a shrug back. "Take it up with Delta, teacher's-pet. I'm going to have some fun before we hit the arena."

* * *

 _Chintz Merier / District Eight Male_

They gave me a fake tooth in the Remake Center, regardless of whether or not I deserve a replacement; I lost the original to a very stupid mistake when I was younger. The new one is alarmingly lifelike for a temporary replacement. I spend a lot of time prodding at it with my tongue.

My stylist's name is Elissa, her hair is the color of dried corn silk, and she's kind enough to walk me to my chariot, where Banquo and our two old mentors are waiting. Scutarius DeCarli, the victor of the first Hunger Games, claimed Beatrice right away, declaring he sensed some sort of untapped potential in her. Feeling rather unspecial, I was paired with the fourth victor, an intense-looking man with sinewy limbs and salt-and-pepper hair named Wolfram Bates.

"Where have you been?" Banquo demands, his arms crossed. "I thought we'd have to send out an empty chariot." I'm the last one to notice that Beatrice isn't there, just as my stylist jumps in to explain my lateness.

"We did some dental work." Elissa looks nonplussed. "Temporary, but I think you'll agree that it's an improvement. Smile for us, Chintz?"

I don't feel like smiling, but my stylist has been kind to me. I bare my teeth at my team. Banquo nods in approval, but Scooter and Woof don't look as impressed.

 _Because it won't help you win the Games._

"What was wrong with his teeth to begin with?" Woof asks. "Kid never shows 'em."

"Where's Beatrice?" I ask, eager to make someone else the topic of conversation.

"Making allies," says Scooter. "You should join her."

"This guy look like he needs allies?" Woof chuckles.

"Everyone needs allies." Scooter's expression doesn't change, and my mentor sobers.

"Fine," he says, ceding to his partner's authority. "Chintz, go make some friends."

With barely enough time to adjust to my new surroundings, I've been given a mission. Elissa reaches up to give me a reassuring pat on the back before flitting away to join her prep team. Woof points me in my district partner's direction, and, like a giant wind-up toy with a new set of chompers, sets me in motion.

It's impossible to keep my eyes down as I walk. It looks as if every tribute I pass is in a different stage of grief. The boy from Nine is chatting it up with an irritated-looking Career, a nervous energy about him that electrifies my own anxiety. The girl from Twelve sits blankly as her district partner tries to get a conversation out of her, failing every time. The boy from Ten looks like he's about to start sobbing into his hands, as do quite a few others. I feel more than a few pairs of eyes on me as I walk down the line.

I find Beatrice close to the end of the row, talking with the pair from District Eleven. She's wearing a patchy dress made from an assortment of different fabrics; it matches the multicolored costume Elissa had to adjust for me. My district partner's honey-colored hair is pinned up in a simple bun, similar to her reaping style. Somehow, they've managed to make her look even less threatening than before, a skinny, plain-looking girl wrapped up in elaborate Capitol couture. She looks as silly as I do crammed into my too-small suit jacket, but she still avoids my eyes.

"You must be the district partner." I've forgotten that the Elevens are here, too. It's the male tribute who has spoken, a muscular guy with skin the color of caramel, his curly dark hair pressed to his head by an elaborate woven headpiece.

"This is…Chintz Merier." Beatrice says. She pronounces my last name wrong, but I don't correct her. Why bother?

"Good to meet you, Chintz," The boy tries to meet my eyes, but I can't look at him. Instead, I focus on his outstretched hand. I keep my grip loose as I shake it. "I'm Balziel. And this is Annona, my district partner."

Only then do I notice the petite girl beside him, looking up at me inquisitively. She can't be older than twelve or thirteen. Her woven headdress adds a good six inches to her height, but she's still only level with Balziel's shoulders.

"Call me Ann," she says, with less hesitation than I'd expect. "I like your costumes. Could the two of your stand together for a moment?"

My confusion puts me on edge. Beatrice shoots me an odd look, but it's more of an ' _Isn't this silly_?' than an ' _Oh no, what is she doing_?' It quiets my nerves, but only slightly. I shuffle over a step, until I feel her shoulder brush my upper arm. This seems to please the Elevens.

"Now I can see the picture!" Ann explains, and her district partner smiles. I blink at her, feeling as if she's speaking gibberish. What picture?

"Ah. I get it." Balziel says, pointing. The two of us look down at our costumes, at the overlapping patchwork of colorful fabrics, and it begins to make sense. What once looked like a random blend of swatches to me, now forms the sigil of our district.

"Those stylists really know what they're doing, don't they?" breathes Beatrice, and it takes a second to realize she's waiting for a response from me. Immediately, I step back from my partner, splitting the seal of Eight in half again.

"We should go." I say. The Elevens don't look alarmed that I'm suddenly in a hurry to leave.

"Come find us after the parade, okay?" Balziel says with a sympathetic smile. I start to squirm; I can't get a proper read on him, but he's much too friendly to have pure motives.

"We should go," I repeat, turning around this time and heading back down the line. I look over my shoulder once to see if Beatrice has followed me. It's a mistake. As soon as I peer back, I feel myself crash into something human.

"Hey, Two-Ton Tony!" I've only jostled the wiry girl from Ten, but she's angry about it. "What the hell's your problem?"

I mumble an apology, taking a step back, but she won't have it.

"You want to avoid starting a fight _before_ we hit the arena, big guy?" She's very small, but full of fire. "Know this. I don't care if you're broad as a barn. You don't have to take up the whole hall. Get. Out. Of. My. Way."

I take another step back, letting my hair fall in front of my eyes again. Despite her threats, the more sensible part of my mind tells me that I could probably lift her over my head and throw her back onto her chariot if I wanted to. So I'm not quite afraid of her. But it is unnerving that, despite my appearance, she seems to know that I'm not looking for a fight.

 _So much for being intimidating._

"Sophie!" her partner calls from her chariot. "Let him alone!"

As she turns to say something nasty back to the boy from Ten, I step around her as gracefully as I can. I lengthen my stride, hoping to get back to my chariot, to the safety of minimal contact with other tributes, as quickly as possible.

I don't quite make it. My heart sinks a few inches lower in my chest when I realize that, somehow, Beatrice has made it back to home base before me.

"What was that?" she asks as I drag myself up to join her, obviously referencing the girl from Ten's incursion. But in this moment, I don't care if she's my other half. If she expects me to come up with a response for her, she'll have to give me time enough to gather my thoughts.

I decide that, as the chariot jerks into motion, my best bet is to answer her with silence.

* * *

 _Tybalt Egan / District Nine Male_

I didn't expect this to be so much fun. In the time is took for our chariot to emerge from the gaping mouth of the tunnel underneath the Remake Center, I went from shaking in my well-polished shoes to overflowing with tremors of excitement. Somewhere along the line, I must have realized how many cameras were going to be on me. How many voices in the crowd were already shouting my name.

If there was going to be an up side to the terrible situation I've wound up in, I'm glad that it presented itself now. All day, I've been at my lowest, but something about the roaring crowds of Capitolites on either side of me has begun to filter some life back into my system. They actually _know_ me. They know who I am, where I come from. Not only that, but they really seem to like it when I wave back at them.

Perry Killam, looking slightly out of her element in a bronze-colored dress, seems to have figured this out as well. She flashes dazzling smiles, waves like she's personal friends with our audience members, and even poses with me a few times before the sea of flashing cameras. To say she's having a good time might be overdoing it, but one thing is certain; she definitely knows how to play a crowd.

I, meanwhile, am having the time of my life just being recognized.

"Tybalt! Perry!" I hear a particularly shrill voice in the crowd, although they've long since disappeared in our wake by the time I turn to grace them with a wave. The chariots are alarmingly fast; I have to save one of my arms for holding on for dear life. Disappointment blends with relief as we roll to a stop along the City Circle.

"That was incredible," I can't help but laugh.

"Yeah," Perry summons a smile of her own, relief flooding her features. " _Thrilling_."

"Think Whit'll be proud of us?" I ask, bouncing on the balls of my feet. The start of the president's speech has brought a respectful lull to the crowd, but I still have the jitters.

"I don't know," Perry looks up to where the mentors sit, at the right hand of the leader of Panem himself. "He's funny, Tybalt. It's hard to tell what he's thinking."

"Oh, thank God." I say, and she raises an eyebrow. "It's kind of comforting to know I'm not the only one who doesn't really get him."

Perry chuckles a little. "Not the word I'd choose. We'd better start to understand him soon, or we'll need some serious help in the arena."

That dampens my mood a little. "True."

The ride back isn't quite as exciting; I keep rolling my district partner's words over in my mind. We really don't have a lot of time left before the arena. A few days of training, interview night. Four more days? Three? Only time stands between us and the Games now.

Whitaker Kovach, Nine's only victor, greets us as we finish our trip around town. I can immediately pick him out in the crowd; his bone-white hair is cropped close to his skull, but it still stands out, a product of his Games. He helps us both down from the chariot, studying our faces with a lone brown eye. This, as he clearly told us when we first met, was _not_ a product of his Games.

"Did you do what I told you to do?" Whit likes to greet us with an immediate question.

"Smile and wave," Perry confirms with a nod. "Wasn't hard at all."

The young mentor, who was obviously preparing to chew us out for being cowards, looks oddly impressed. "Good."

"They even knew our names," I say with a grin. "I think it's safe to say we made a few new Capitolite friends out there tonight." At this, Whit's expression changes.

"There's no guarantee, Tybalt. Not this early. Just because a few of them recognized you from the reapings doesn't mean they'll support you in the arena, and they're not your friends." His eye narrows slightly. "Which reminds me, did either of you do what I told you _not_ to do?"

"I tried not to socialize." Perry says, frowning. "But tributes kept approaching me out of nowhere. Does that always happen?"

I start to squirm. "I talked with a few tributes, too. I couldn't help it."

"You two." Whit groans. "What did I say?"

"With respect, sir, you give confusing advice!" I tell him. "First you tell us that we need to make friends, then not to talk to anyone? It's very contradictory."

Whit massages his forehead. "Impress the Capitolites, is what I said. Don't make allies before you've seen them in the Training Center, is also what I said. What about that is so complicated?"

"The not speaking to anyone part." Perry points out. "How are we supposed to judge our competition if we can't talk to them?"

Whit's expression is stony. "I'm not going to dignify that with an answer."

As our mentor turns his back on us, making his way back to the elevator, I face Perry. She smoothes out the front of her dress, looking frustrated.

"Ironic that our one-eyed mentor wants us to watch instead of listen." I point out, trying to make light of our reproach. It gets half a smile out of Perry, but the look vanishes as soon as it appears.

"Are you trying to be my friend?" she asks suddenly, jarring me with such a direct question. In the wake of her abrupt change of subject, it takes me a second to come up with an acceptable answer.

"Well, yes." I say after a pause. "I mean, I'm starting to really like you. And I almost always try to become friends with people I like."

" _Almost_ always?" Perry raises her eyebrows.

"Sometimes it doesn't work out. Sometimes it's not the right time." I think of Ruy, wondering if he's gotten a new roommate yet. My district partner nods soberly.

"And _sometimes_ you're both contestants in a televised fight to the death," she says, not unkindly. I suppose I walked right into that one.

"We don't have to be _friends_ , per se." I backtrack. "But we could still help each other. It's like Whit said. The greatest asset a tribute can have is someone they can trust."

Perry looks at me. "The word you're looking for. Is it _ally_?"

"If you want that, then yes." My district partner hesitates only briefly. Then she nods.

"It's weird, how we only seem to be able to follow one bit of our mentor's advice at a time." She sticks out her hand, and I shake it. "We should really stop doing that."

"Agreed, partner," I say. "Starting now."

 **Chapter Question: For the sake of a future chapter, pick a category: mammal, reptile, bird, amphibian, or insect?**


	10. Training Day 1: No Hard Feelings

**TyeTheLurker: Your feeling…is correct.**

 _Arden Borynski / District Two Female_

In the morning, I grab two slices of toast and wait by the elevator for Francis to finish his briefing with Penelope. The old victor has done this since the train, as if she needs all the extra hours she can get to groom my district partner for victory. Must be doing wonders for his self-esteem. Since we still have some time before training, I'm willing to linger a few minutes longer with my toast, happy that my mentor likes to sleep in.

Claude's style of mentoring differs from his partner's in that his sessions are quite a bit more erratic. He does give me advice, but it's often out of the blue, when I least expect it. A knock on the door just as I'd drifted off to sleep on the train, followed by an in-depth conversation about pre-Games strategy. A series of survival tips as he helped me down from my chariot. A tug on my arm after dinner, summoning me to the kitchen for a hushed discussion of my training plans before dessert. These are his more lucid moments, I suppose. We've both learned to make the most of them.

When he's not giving me advice, Claude spends a lot of time thinking, his dark eyes floating from place to place, transfixed by something no one else can see. I try not to question it. So he isn't entirely stable; he still manages to do his job quite well.

My partner emerges from his room in a black training ensemble, looking considerably more frayed at the edges than usual. Strange as they are, I certainly prefer Claude's sporadic advice sessions to whatever Penelope does to stress Francis out like this.

He comes to a stop next to me, raising his eyebrows slightly. "You waited."

"Course," I tell him. "You're surprised?"

"Uh, no," he says. "It's just going to be a little more awkward now."

"How do you mean?" I ask, pressing the elevator button. He heaves in a breath.

"I mean, I don't want to tell you that you've wasted your time waiting here, but I'm not joining the volunteer alliance."

It takes a second to sink in. "What?"

"Not joining the volunteer alliance," he repeats. "I work better alone."

"Are you joking?" I ask him.

"Why would I joke about that?" The elevator doors open then, and he steps inside. I almost hesitate to follow him in.

"Maybe because breaking off from the group early on is a decision we've been advised against since the beginning of training." I scan his eyes for even a glimmer of understanding. "You can't just decide to tackle this on your own."

"I already did. I'm perfectly—"

"You have to meet the others." I can't bring myself to let him finish. "You have to gauge the threat level of your potential enemies. Get to know your potential allies."

The floor number winds down to one, ground level, before he looks at me. "I don't really _want_ to get to know them. Not if they all have to die for me to win this. You can't tell me you won't be thinking it when they introduce themselves."

I frown. "I try not to think like that. Not this early, anyway."

"That's dangerous," says Francis as the doors open. I throw up my hands.

"Well, if it suits you, you can think about them dying all you want. But when four well-trained tributes want to ally with you, you don't just _pass_."

My district partner stops in the hallway, letting the doors close behind us. "You really want me to meet the other volunteers?"

I try to contain my exasperation.

"Yes. You and I, Francis, we've got an opportunity that only belongs to us, and those four other tributes in the field." I tell him. "Taking it for granted would be a huge mistake."

I can tell he's thinking about it. I question whether I worded it in a way that could bring him back. Luckily, something I said seems to ring true for him. Hesitantly, he nods.

"If I can't trust them, I'll leave."

"Thank you," I say, my shoulders relaxing. The two of us approach the gym doors.

I glance at my partner's face, knowing that I don't have to ask him if he's ready.

…

The Head Trainer keeps it brief. Soon enough, she's off to the knife-throwing station, and Francis and I make a beeline for the District Ones.

They make an intimidating pair this year, the tall blond boy with a soldier's posture and a prince's air, the broad-shouldered girl with the coppery hair who smiles as if she's in the midst of a great adventure. I decide immediately that I like the look of the female tribute, that magnetic grin, so I direct my introduction towards her.

"Arden, is it?" She regards me with eyes the color of sparkling steel. "I'm Opal. This is—"

"Paris Calloway," the blond boy interrupts. "Near-top of my class in weapons training, back in One, with equally high marks for my leadership skills."

Opal touches my shoulder. "I told him we didn't need a proper leader. He won't listen to me."

It surprises me, the realization that I've never really thought about choosing a leader. Less surprising is that I don't have a problem letting Paris take the job. I could go out for the position myself, but I feel it's unnecessary. If no alliance is permanent in the arena, why go for a position of power that you'll never be able to keep?

"The only reason I'm not listening to you is because you're wrong," Paris says, looking indignant. "We may be a very capable group, yes, but a party like this needs someone to keep things organized."

"Which leads him to his point," Opal mutters.

"Which leads me to my point!" Paris tells us. "I would be honored to lead this alliance to victory."

"I'm sorry, did you say _you_ were going to lead?" Another voice interrupts Paris's impassioned speech. I'm not sure how long the tributes from District Four have been standing behind us. It's the female tribute who's spoken, a heavyset girl with immaculate eye makeup—she's got a skill I'd probably envy, if that was my thing. Behind her stands her taller, broader district partner, who looks almost apologetic.

"Yes." Paris gives her a once-over, obviously unimpressed. "Did you say you were going to challenge me?"

The girl sniffs. "No. But it's not a bad idea."

Francis turns to me with what I can only imagine is a look of exasperation. I pretend not to see him.

"You're Brina Whaley, aren't you?" Opal puts herself between them. "And Beckett McKenzie?"

The introductions that follow remove some of the tension from the air, and Paris visibly relaxes. Brina, who has remained cool through the entire ordeal, begins to get on my nerves. Paris, at least, I can understand, but it bothers me that I can't get a read on the girl from Four.

I clear my throat, and the rest of the alliance turns to me.

"So, we're all here, then." I say. "What's the plan for today?"

Immediately, Paris brightens. "We should make showing off our skills a priority. Let's give the rest of the field something to be afraid of, huh?"

It's a solid enough idea. I nod.

"That's a dumb plan," Brina says, looking aloof. "Intimidation tactics are so…well, just unnecessary. They're already scared of us."

"Hey, wait. You just—" Her district partner, who's been quiet up to this point, looks astounded. Paris makes sure we don't have time to figure out what's wrong.

"I guess you've got a better idea, then?" Paris challenges her.

"I mean, not really." Brina shrugs. "But I'm sure the others do. Just look at them."

Paris frowns at us for a moment, trying to figure out if we're plotting to undermine his supposed authority. "Well?"

There's a pause. I break the silence. "I'd like to work on skills like spear-throwing, swordplay. And the survival stations, definitely. I think those skills would benefit us the most in the long run."

"I agree with Arden," says Beckett from behind us. "Spears, swords, and knives are the most common weapons found in the Cornucopia."

"And if we're prepared to use those," I say, "We don't have to search too hard for a weapon during the initial battle."

Paris considers. "He's got a point."

"Calloway, are you blind?" Brina rolls her eyes at him. "That's a girl." I cringe, feeling my ears start to burn.

Francis steps forward to interrupt. "I just want to observe for today. Pick a place to sit and learn about my competition."

Despite it being the first time Francis has spoken in a group setting, Brina and Paris take on the same look of distaste. "Next."

Opal steps up to the plate. "This isn't getting us anywhere. We should split up today."

"Fine by me," says Paris. "For now, at least, let's have Beckett, Arden, and I on weapons, and Opal, Francis, and Brina on survival stations."

"No," says Brina immediately. "Put me on weapons."

Paris exhales. "But you just said—"

"Do you have to be so difficult?" she asks him. "It's not that important, is it?"

"I'll switch with her." I cut in. I'd much rather be with my district partner and the less annoying One, anyway.

We split up, most of the pack satisfied with their respective assignments. Seems like we're in for a fun first day, the three of us. Despite the fact that Francis looks ready to ditch us the first chance he gets.

This time, I really can't blame him.

…

I spend the morning with Opal, hopping from survival station to survival station until we get unbelievably bored. Turns out, the two of us are both competent survival-wise, so we probably weren't the best candidates for Remedial Plant Identification, after all. I only make it a few hours before my hand starts twitching, longing for me to put a dagger in it and start fighting for real. But as much as I'd like to skip the formalities and head straight to the arena, the tributes by my side seem to genuinely need the training time.

At lunch, we pull two tables together, right in the middle of the dining floor, so we can all fit around them. Something about weapons training has warmed Paris and Brina up towards each other a bit, although it seems to have come at the expense of Beckett's energy. The boy from Four doesn't even get food, opting to rest his head on the table instead. I look around for Francis, and find him seated by himself in the corner of the dining hall.

"What's his deal?" Opal asks me, nodding to my partner. "Is he out?"

"We'll see," I say, pushing in my chair. I cross the floor to meet him, feeling more than a few pairs of eyes on my back.

"No change, huh?" I don't sit down in front of him, afraid my allies will think we're conspiring against them. "You're still not joining?"

He doesn't answer at first, staring at his sandwich. "I don't trust them."

"I just don't get it," I tell him. "Paris is an excellent swordsman. Opal can make a proper bear trap out of twigs and vines. Beckett knows everything about the Games you'd ever need to know. And get this, apparently Brina's got incredible sponsor power. You really didn't find any of them worth sticking around for?"

Francis lifts his cup slightly, as if making a toast. "Just you."

"Obviously not," I say, annoyed. "If you're leaving anyway."

"That's not what I meant." He shakes his head. "I don't want to be their ally. But I'll be yours, if you want."

"I want us to work together, man. I do." I look over my shoulder. Paris is the only one still watching. "But I also want to give myself the best chance I've got out there."

"So the first thing you do is surround yourself with enemies?" Francis asks.

"That's not what I'm doing."

"Leave them," he says, "and we can face the arena as a team. Or stay with your pack, and I'll keep working alone. No harm, no foul."

"No hard feelings," I tell him, turning around. When he doesn't respond, I start to put distance between myself and his sad little table.

"Hey, think about it!" he calls after me, but not before I've already crossed half the dining floor, made it back to the others.

Doesn't stop me from listening.

* * *

 _Tybalt Egan / District Nine Male_

The only blade I've ever held in my hands, I used to cut stalks of wheat. I could never imagine pointing one at a person and shoving it inside of them, as this trainer seems to think is the tool's proper purpose. Most of the other tributes at the station look a little green as she explains the many ways this wheat-cutting object can be used to end someone's life.

The girl from Five kind of swats at the target, as if she's trying to squash a fly but doesn't like the idea of bug juice on her fingers. The girl from Twelve is trying to throw her knives, but can't make a single weapon stick. The boy from Six, the volunteer—Connor, is it?—can only stare at the knife rack, unable to pick one to start with. None of these tributes look like they have any hope of using this particular weapon in the arena—especially not on another tribute—and it hurts me that I have to count myself among them. I have yet to do anything with the knife in my hand.

"I've never even seen a knife like this in person before," I remark out loud, inspecting the weapon I'm holding. Some kind of hunting weapon, it must be.

The girl from Five looks up. "Me neither. I don't even know where to begin."

"I've used a scythe, during the harvest," I say faster, grateful for someone to talk to, "But I was never very good at it."

"How would you swing it?" she asks, and then flushes a bit. "Sorry. I'm Emmeryn."

"Tybalt," I tell her. "Kind of side to side, like this." I mimic the motion of my scythe in the fields, trying to imagine that I'm back in my home district, going through the motions of the harvest. Emmeryn copies my movements, seeming to understand.

"I worked in an apothecary's shop back home," she says. "I'm good at identifying plants, but…not much else, I guess."

"We all start somewhere." I shrug, and she smiles.

"Want to try a different station?" she asks. "Something more my speed? Maybe I can show you a few things, too."

It's then that I realize I've given this tribute the wrong idea.

"I, uh…" I blink, searching for an out. "sure, just…"

I end up excusing myself, going off to look for a bathroom, abandoning Emmeryn at the knife station. I try to tell myself it wasn't really my fault, that she can't blame me for not wanting to be her ally. But it was, and she can; I just had to start up a conversation, didn't I? I hope Perry's doing a better job listening to Whit's advice.

No such luck, for either of us. My real ally approaches me just before the end of training, and to my alarm, she isn't alone. Beside her—or rather, behind her—is the twelve-year-old girl from Eleven. All five-foot-nothing of her.

"Tybalt," Perry says cautiously. "This is Annona."

 _Oh, no. No, no, no._

"Hello, Annona," I say with a forced smile.

"Nice to meet you," the girl says. "You can call me Ann."

"Ann has very good aim," Perry says. "And, as we learned this morning, that's a skill neither of us has. It's something that could be very useful in the arena."

I look at the twelve-year-old again. "Can I speak to Perry alone for a minute?"

"Um, sure," she says, looking worried. I will myself not to look at her eyes.

 _Time to be the bad guy. You can do this, Tybalt._ I try to use Ruy's voice to calm my nerves, but it doesn't work. Because that's not what he would tell me at all. If he were actually here, he'd probably say something more like:

 _I warned you about this moment. They're your competition. Don't screw this up by thinking about them like friends._

Oddly enough, the realistic version of Ruy helps much more.

"Tell me you didn't invite her into our alliance," I say to Perry.

"I, uh, can't do that." She avoids my eyes.

"She's twelve, Perry!" I whisper.

"She needs our help," she says, "And maybe we need hers, too."

"Maybe we're fine on our own," I say weakly. Perry looks at me.

"That's not true. We need all the help we can get."

"From stronger tributes," I say. "The boy from Seven. The girl from Ten. Older tributes, tributes with skills they can teach us."

"Give her a chance, at least."

"I want to," I say, conflicted. "I really want to, but I also want to do what's best for us both. What would Whit say about this?"

My district partner looks over my shoulder, distracted.

"Whit gives confusing advice."

 **Chapter Question: Who do you think should lead the Career pack?**


	11. Training Day 2: Normalcy

_Ptolemy "Tolly" Barrington / District Seven Male_

"What are you doing?" It's the first time Avaline's spoken to me since the train ride, but I'm too busy tearing apart my bedroom to care.

"They took them." I'm still in disbelief, peeling back my sheets and giving them a good shake, just in case I wore them to sleep by accident, lost them during the night. No luck.

"Taken what?" My district partner sticks her head into the room.

"My _fingers_." I say. She looks alarmed at first, until she seems to remember the wooden apparatus I'd been wearing on my right hand before.

"Your token?" she asks, touching her own when she mentions it.

I nod yes, dropping the sheets.

"They took mine yesterday, for a sort of inspection," Avaline says, holding up her wrist. On it she wears a thick leather bracelet that looks as if it were once part of someone's belt. "They must have taken yours last night."

My shoulders sink in relief. "Oh. Yeah, they must have."

"They won't let you have them." Avaline jumps when our mentor materializes behind her. Timber's shirt and pants are slightly rumpled, as if he slept in yesterday's clothes. "Gamemakers aren't known to allow prosthetics in the arena. It's more of a 'come are you are' type of place."

"That's insane!" I stress.

"Come as you are," Timber repeats under his breath, frowning. "Come are you are."

"Timber?" asks Avaline. "Are you okay?"

"Come are you—" Timber blinks. "—are. Yes. I'm fine. Tolly, you couldn't move those fake fingers anyway, so what's it really cost you to give them up?"

"I don't know," I throw up my hands. "The comforting guise of normalcy?"

Our mentor looks unimpressed. "Normalcy doesn't count for much in the arena. If you can't pick up an axe with your right hand, learn to use your left. That's what training is for."

"Sounds like it might be a rough day," jokes Avaline, but she quickly goes solemn again before I have a chance to respond, inspecting the end of her braid with an intense sort of focus. Our mentor is no more receptive.

"If you can't pick up an axe with your…" he mutters again, walking away. I smooth out my training uniform and sit heavily on the edge of my bed, clasping my right hand in my left.

"You can use your non-dominant hand, though, can't you?" Avaline says quietly, as if I don't want Timber to know. "I saw you at the axe station yesterday. You were fine."

I look up, surprised that she's watched me in the Center. The notion that she's kept an eye on me during training really shouldn't faze me as much as it does, since I've been looking out for her as well. She mainly stuck to the survival stations yesterday, although she did spend some time learning the basics of knife throwing. Her aim's not bad at all.

"Yeah, I can use my left," I admit. It's how I kept my job after I lost the fingers in the first place. "I'm just worried about my alliance. No one wants to ally with a seven-fingered Seven, you know?"

"I've never heard that before," she says seriously. "So you're going through with the big alliance plan, after all."

I nod. "And you're still invited, of course. Especially now that you can throw knives."

She looks relatively pleased that I know what she can do. "I wish I could say yes to that."

"Why can't you?"

Avaline avoids my eyes. "Can't do big alliances. Or small ones, now that I've really considered it. I don't want to risk—"

"Getting attached, I know." I sigh. "But still. Going into the arena without anyone to watch your back?"

"I've got people I care about at home. My parents, my best friend. I've got seven siblings, too. Seven. Most of them younger than I am. If I want to get back to my family, I can't start making friends here."

"I wouldn't say _friends_ as much as _allies_ ," I say, feeling uneasy.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to tell the difference," Avaline whispers. "Death's going to happen to at least one of us, like it or not. I don't want to watch it happen to you."

Her reasoning leaves me feeling strange. "That's fair. I won't bother you about it again."

She leaves the doorway without responding, probably left with the same unsettled feeling as I have.

* * *

 _Goal of The Day: Make powerful allies._

The Training Center seems bigger than yesterday; there are less tributes milling about the center of the floor than there were before. I suppose everybody's found their niches by now. As for me, I expect to follow suit soon enough.

I scan the floor, standing on the pedestal from which the Head Trainer gave her speech. The boys from Eleven and Twelve, Balziel and Gareth, seem to be quite friendly. They spend a lot of their time together at the survival stations, though, and don't seem to be particularly skilled in a lot of useful areas. The girl from Ten, maybe, would be a better candidate. It's hard to glean a tribute's potential value as an ally from a glance.

Or so I think, until my eyes land on Francis, from Two.

He isn't standing with the other Careers, who all seem to be training as a group today at the spear-throwing station. Francis has instead elected to spend his morning at the archery station, where he appears to be trying to set a Training Center record for most arrows shot into the perfect center of a target. He's sending them into the bullseye faster than the trainers can retrieve them, which is almost as scary to me as it is for them.

I decide that he looks like a good place to start. He doesn't see me coming.

"You don't seem like you need any more training time," I say, the moment after he releases another arrow. He turns around, without bothering to see if it struck center (It did.). The boy from Two is shorter than I am, with eyes the color of the sky.

"It isn't just about training," he says after a moment, as if making sure that I'm talking to him. "Good opportunity to get to know who you're up against, too."

"Enemies and allies both," I agree. "Speaking of which, I noticed that you're not with your allies today."

"I don't have any allies," he says immediately. "I'm sorry, Seven, but I don't want any."

I feel my face fall, even though part of me probably knew that it was too much to hope for, that he'd decided to ditch the Careers because he had moral objections to their violent ideals.

"Ideals have nothing to do with it," he says, turning back to the target range. Crap. I think I must have said that out loud. He doesn't seem bothered by my comment, quickly nocking another arrow and taking aim. I interpret the gesture as my cue to leave.

I bump into another tribute as soon as I turn around.

"Hi!" It's one of the boys from the middle districts, a good-looking guy with thick glasses and a freckled face framed by a mess of dark hair.

"Oh," I say, surprised. "Um, hello." I've never been approached before. I recognize the boy immediately, but vaguely enough that it's difficult to place where he comes from.

"I'm Lev," he says, smiling. "McKinley. From Five."

"Tolly. Seven," I introduce myself.

 _He's from Five, of course_. Now that I think about it, I do remember his reaping; he was one of the criers. The glasses make him difficult to recognize now. They must have given him a pair in the Capitol. My insides churn with envy as I clamp my hand down over the place where I would have secured my fake fingers.

"I know," Lev says brightly. "I just spoke with your district partner. Says you're building up some kind of alliance."

"Trying to." I frown.

"Is it exclusive?"

"Should be, if we're going to be effective at all in the arena," I tell him. "But so far, I haven't had much luck."

This seems to please him, for some reason.

"Can I show you something?" he asks, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. He has a kind of feverish energy about him, an excitement that bubbles under the surface of his skin. What he has to be excited about, I have no idea.

"Sure," I give him a nod. Why not?

"This way!" He starts walking away from the shooting range, where Francis is probably delighted to have his silence back. I lengthen my stride to keep up with the boy from Five.

"What do you do for fun in Seven?" he asks me as we walk.

"Cut down trees," I say, and I'm only half-joking.

He laughs. "By that logic, all we ever do in Five is produce electricity."

"Sounds like a good time to me."

"Really, though. It was a serious question." Lev points a finger at me, trying to get back on track. I think about Avaline, how there was no way the guy could have gotten a conversation out of her. Maybe she directed him toward me in order to give him something else to do, to get him to leave her alone. Maybe he's taking me all this way just to show me a 49.9% plant identification score.

"I don't have a lot of leisure time back home," I tell him with a shrug. "When I'm not working, I usually have to take care of my siblings."

"I understand that," Lev nods. "I live in an orphanage, back home. Or, lived. I was eighteen, so I wouldn't have been there much longer, anyway. But I was one of the oldest there, so I know what it's like to have a bunch of little kids to take care of. Where do you work?"

"In the woods," I say. "Like you'd expect. Lot of kids my age are loggers."

Lev nods intently. Somewhere, it registers that he's older than I am.

"Is that how you lost those?" he asks, pointing at my hand. My heart rate jumps up a few beats per minute, before I realize that coming up with a suitable lie isn't all that hard.

"Yes," I tell him finally, shoving both hands into my pockets. It's not that the truth wouldn't score me a few points, especially where sponsors are concerned. But some things are just meant to be private; I think Lev already understands this.

"I made you uncomfortable." He looks dismayed. "I'm sorry! We can talk about something else."

"It's fine," I say with a shrug. "There's just not a whole lot to tell, that's all. Tell me more about your orphanage."

He brightens. "Well, it was more like _two_ orphanages, once. It belonged to Mr. Stroud before the merger, and then suddenly the place had to take on Mr. Maxwell's kids as well. It was tough at first, but the two of them really made it work. They were like parents to me."

It almost relaxes me, to listen to him talking about his life back home. As if, through the power of small talk, we're taking back some of the normalcy the Games have stolen from us. Neither of us notices that we've reached our destination: the trap-setting station.

"—and even though I can't take my token into the Games, you know, if I want to be able to _see_ , Ethylene swore she'd keep an eye on it in case I came back. That's what she said, _in case_. I know she's been through the Games and all, but she can be really—" He stops abruptly. "Tolly, wait! Don't step there!"

It's too late. My foot comes down on a patch of moss in just the right way, and I feel something tighten around my ankle. Before I know it, there's a sound like the _whoosh_ of a tree falling through the air, and the world around me has turned upside down.

Upside-down Lev's face is as white as birch bark. "I'm so sorry. I swear that's not what was supposed to happen. I was just going to show it to you, but we started talking and I wasn't paying attention—"

That's when I start laughing, and I really can't stop. Relief washes over the boy from Five, even as the five nearest Capitol trainers come running to cut me down from the branches of the synthetic tree, grabbing Lev by the arms and restraining him like he's trapped me there on purpose. Now he's laughing, too.

"Pfft, no, wait!" It's even harder to contain myself when all the blood is rushing to my head. "Let him go! It was an accident!"

One trainer saws through the rope that's suspending me, sending me into the arms of two other trainers, both of whom I nearly knock flat on their backs when I fall down on top of them. It's a struggle to get the real story out, but once we do, the trainers leave us just as quickly as they'd arrived.

"So _that's_ what you can do," I say once I can get a complete sentence out.

He grins. "I've been learning how to set all sort of traps over the past two days. Hunting traps, tribute traps, even water traps, if that makes sense. All I need are the proper supplies. And some allies, hopefully."

"Well, you've got one," I say. "Or, at least, you've _caught_ one."

Lev beams at me. I smile back, hoping he won't notice the relief leaking through.

* * *

 _Chintz Merier / District Eight Male_

The little girl from Three is named Kelly, and today she's finally going to talk to the Careers. I've watched her pacing around the spear-throwing station for hours, witnessed days spent creeping close enough to touch their backs, but always making a hasty retreat before they noticed her there. She's anxious, and it's not hard to guess why. She can't be much older than twelve.

I watch from my quiet place at the fire-starting station as she stalks across the training floor. Her target seems to be the boy from Four, though it's hard to think of him as the most approachable-looking Career, with his formidable size and skill. But maybe she's been watching them more closely than I have; maybe there's something I can learn from her.

The first sign that the proposal isn't going to pan out as she thought it would is that, when she taps on the boy's muscular shoulder, both tributes from Four turn around. Uh oh. There's something nasty about the way the Four girl stares down at Kelly, something that makes me want to look away. I already know how this encounter will end.

"Hello." The sudden noise makes me start violently. I don't mean to scare him back, but the lank-haired boy who's just spoken to me nearly falls over in shock. He seems to be just as tightly wound as I am.

"I'm Hans," he says, once he's recovered. He looks like a Hans.

I wait slightly too long before I offer him a "Chintz." in return.

"From Eight?" he asks, and when I nod. "Three."

"Your district partner is allying with the Careers," I mutter the first thing I can think of to say.

"What?!" His head swings around, frantic, as I return to my kindling. I think that's going to be the end of it, that he's going to run off and rescue his partner, but I'm wrong. I'm wrong a lot.

"No, she's not," he says. "She's stalking the boy from Seven. Were you kidding?"

I shrug without looking at him. He doesn't seem too bothered by that.

"Well, whatever. If she doesn't think I'm good enough to be her ally, what do I care? I've got people looking out for me where it counts."

I don't ask him what that means.

"But what about you? Do you have anyone who's going to watch your back?" I have a feeling he means it harmlessly, but something about the way he says it rubs me the wrong way.

"No."

"That's great, then! We could be allies, right?"

"No."

"What, you don't like me?"

"I don't know you."

"I'm the only one in this field that can protect you against more than just the other tributes, buddy."

I shift my weight, my crouched position on the floor starting to feel uncomfortable.

"I don't just mean those blasphemous animals they splice together in their labs, either." Hans shakes his head, his expression darkening. "I'm talking about something even more profane."

I don't ask. I'm not sure I want to know what he's talking about.

He answers anyway. "Demons. Spirits. Stuff that can get a hold of your soul before you even know they're there. I can protect you from them in the arena."

It crosses my mind that this tribute might actually be insane.

"I'm not looking for allies." I say in a low voice. He hears it, but pretends that he doesn't. I have to repeat myself.

"You can't fight them off with brute strength, buddy," Hans tells me. "You can swing your fists at tributes, but you can't punch an incorporeal being."

"I work alone," I say, finally getting to my feet. Suddenly finding himself looking up at me, Hans's courage dissolves.

"That's fine, then. I've got people looking out for me where it counts. They're looking out where it counts." He repeats it to himself as he walks away, like a mantra of consolation. I feel rather strange as I sit back down again, but I'm happy to be alone.

"I think you're going to regret that." For the second time today, a voice makes me jump.

"Sorry," the girl from Five looks at me strangely. "I thought you knew I was here."

"Why would I regret it?" I ask. I try to remember her name from the reapings, or the chariot announcements. Emily? Emmer? Emelia? Most of the tributes I've been introduced to over the past few days have blurred together in my mind.

"Not saying you should have taken on that particular tribute as an ally," Em tells me, "There was definitely something wrong with that guy. But crazy or not, he obviously gets around, and if he tells everybody that you aren't looking for allies—"

"I'm not looking for allies," I say. Em looks at me strangely.

"You were telling the truth?"

"I don't need allies." How many times do I have to say it? The only thing I want is to spend my last moments by myself. I don't need someone to watch my back. I don't need anyone at all. I'm not trying to win.

The clock strikes four before the girl from Five can respond. I leave the fire-starting station without looking back, making it to the elevator door before anyone else. It's the first time I've been alone all day. But it only lasts for eight floors.

"Chintz!" Banquo has never looked happy to see me. "Was training profitable today?"

I grunt, dodging him on the way to my room. But another voice stops me in my tracks.

"Chintz, would you stay here a moment?" It's Scooter. I didn't notice him and Woof in the kitchen, snacking on the bouquet of fruit-kebabs someone left on our table.

"Want one?" asks Woof with his mouth full. I shake my head. He holds one out regardless. I come over to take it from him. "Let's talk strategy."

"Beatrice!" I hear Banquo say behind me. "Did training today meet your expectations?" I don't hear a response until she enters the kitchen.

"Not even a little," my partner says as she sits down beside me, burying her face in her hands. At this point, I couldn't agree with her more.

* * *

 **AN: Big thank you to CelticGames4 for Lev, Criss-Kenobie-the-Numenorean for Francis, Declan42 for Hans and Kelly, HogwartsDreamer113 for Beckett, Sinfonian Legend for Emmeryn, and Emrys Holmes for Beatrice.**

 **We've got the interviews coming up in just a few chapters, so I want to let y'all know what I'm doing in advance. Since Luetis is a partial SYOT (and since only two or three submitters are actively reading and reviewing), I won't be writing full interviews for every tribute. If you want one, just drop me a review in the next few chapters and give me a sign that you're still reading.**

 **Chapter Question: What interactions do you want to see happen in future chapters? Who do you want to see more of?**

 **Next Chapter: Individual sessions happen, and training scores are revealed!**


	12. Training Day 3: Galoshes

_Caph Schuyler / District Six Female_

Axel's door is always shut in the morning. Tiberine says he spends most of the day in his room, emerging only to pick at breakfast's leftovers before the avoxes clear it all away. Each time Connor and I have entered the apartment during our Capitol stay, he's locked himself away before we can catch more than a glimpse of him.

I bring my concerns to the table on the morning of our third day of training. Tiberine's pale eyebrows knit together, as if she's trying to figure out just how to respond. Connor doesn't react to the question, only stares at the empty plate in front of him; I can't tell if he's finished his breakfast or just hasn't eaten anything at all. If Tiberine notices his lack of food, she doesn't mention it.

"We'll make him come around soon enough, sweetie." Tiberine, as always, is the source of empty reassurance. "He's still feeling sick from our travels, I'm sure. With our help, Axel will be up and mentoring in no time. I'm sure that we can get him back on track before the interviews."

I nibble on my toast, not comforted in the slightest. The two of us should be feeling hopeless. But, inexplicably, my lost faith in our team doesn't seem to be permanent. Tiberine, lacking as she is in survival knowledge and practical clothing, is actually quite knowledgeable about the Hunger Games. Especially the politics of it all, the aspect most useful to Connor and I right now.

"I don't mind that he's not around," I say decisively, hoping the walls are thin enough for Six's only victor to hear. "You're a very good acting mentor."

Tiberine's face lights up. "You think so? I did learn from the best."

"The best?" I ask, wondering who that could be.

"Why, Six's previous escort. He retired just this year, but he had such fascinating stories to tell. A true treasure trove of handy mentoring tips, that one. Such a character, too."

Something clicks in my head. "You mean he's had to stand in as a mentor, too?"

Tiberine's smile dims slightly. "Just a couple of times, yes."

For a second, I have nothing to say.

"Axel's always been a bit temperamental," Tiberine offers. "It can't be easy, Caph. Doing what he does."

"I thought we were all past the point of caring about that," I frown at my plate. "This isn't just another day on the job for him. It's our _lives_."

Connor makes a sound from across the table, but when I look at him, his eyes are averted.

"I guess it doesn't matter, if I'm just Female Tribute Number Sixteen to him, anyway. We've got individual sessions after lunch today, and I'm doing them with or without his help."

"It's going to be without his help," Connor speaks for the first time this morning.

"Thank you for the input, Connor." I say bitterly, and he seems to recoil.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that," I say. "It's good to hear your voice."

Connor raises his eyes above his plate for the first time this morning. His eyes are icy against his wan complexion, his ink-dark hair. He looks almost pleased. I've never seen an expression like that cross his features before.

"We should think about heading downstairs soon, shouldn't we?" Tiberine's reminder effectively resets Connor's frown. "Training only lasts until lunchtime today. Have we thought about what we're going to do during our individual sessions?"

"We have," I say with what I hope is confidence.

"I haven't," Connor says flatly.

"Just as long as you figure it out in the next couple of hours, dear," Tiberine gives him a warm look. My district partner pushes back his chair with surprising force and leaves the room without another word. As she watches him punch at the elevator button with his finger, our escort's smile fades.

"Was it something I said?" she asks quietly.

"I'd better go with him," I say. "We'll be back in time to watch the scores."

"We most certainly will," Tiberine nods, "Viewing is mandatory."

I'm about to offer a wry smile when I hear a low, muffled voice from the other room.

"Bibelot, breakfast still on the table?"

When I hear his door creak open, I'm down the hallway even faster than Connor.

* * *

The girl from Ten's name is Sophie Turner, and she seems to be a formidable opponent. She wields a knife like someone who's trained for years, lashing out with attacks so strong I'm afraid her skinny arms will snap at the end of each blow. She's beginning to make me very conscious of the loose grip I have on my own knife; as if I'm going to start chopping up vegetables.

Admittedly, the thought of using this wickedly curved blade for cooking is a lot more appealing than the grisly alternative.

When Sophie starts to relieve a dummy of its tough rubber skin, I have to take a break from knife training. I decide to make a beeline for one of the most harmless-looking stations I can see: camouflage.

There are two other tributes at the camouflage station when I get there, talking animatedly to each other about something I can't quite hear. I decide to mind my own business, but I can only keep it up for about thirty seconds before I start to get curious. Eager for a distraction, I scoot over a few centimeters at a time, trying to keep my eyes on my brushwork, which is starting to look more like the night sky than a believable riverbed. When their voices finally come into earshot, I know that the two of them must be allies, trying to figure out a safe place to spend the night in the arena.

"What I'm saying is that it's a lot more practical than digging a giant hole in the ground." I definitely recognize the first tribute, a muscular boy from Eleven named Balziel Mendoza. The second boy is shorter, fairer, with wavy black hair and arms slick to the elbows with a blue substance that does nothing to camouflage them.

"I gotcha, but what _I'm_ saying, Ballsy-el, is that your plan is going to get us killed. I've never climbed a tree I haven't fallen out of. I've broken two limbs that way." He tries to itch his nose with the back of his paint-covered hand, with disastrous results.

"Well, I can climb the tree," Balziel suggests. "And you can wait on the ground."

"I'll be waiting in my super awesome pit, completely unseen," says the other boy. I finally recognize him as the young male tribute from Twelve.

"Your super awesome pit will literally take you a week to dig without a shovel."

"So be it."

"Gareth, we don't even know if we can make it out there for a week," Balziel exclaims.

"I'm a risk taker," Gareth assures him. "And the time I spend digging holes will be repaid five times over in the amount to tributes that will fall into them." Suddenly, my pulse quickens. They're not talking about hiding places. They're talking about tribute traps.

"I think that's generous," Balziel mutters.

"Hope is the single most important factor there is to winning the Games," Gareth argues. "If I don't have that, then all I've got is a couple of holes in the ground."

"You've got me."

"Sure, but for how long? One of us could die, or we could decide to break our alliance. You might fall into one of my pit traps. They're very effective, those pits."

Balziel looks like he's deliberating. "Is it a quick death, the pit? For the other tributes, I mean. I definitely hope you're not planning on getting rid of me like that."

Gareth's mouth twitches downward. "Uh, I mean it really depends on how you fall." He pauses. "I guess I hadn't thought about that."

I stand up suddenly, my paints falling to the ground with such a clatter that Balziel and Gareth both look up. Without a word, I get out of there, fast. But not fast enough to avoid hearing Gareth's next comment.

"Think she heard any of that?"

* * *

I find Connor sitting between the two most unpopular stations, poisonous insects and knot tying. He's engaged in neither of those activities, although the knots instructor seems to be trying to convince him to take a lesson with him. The trainer backs off once I enter the scene, probably with instructions not to disturb tributes who might be forming or changing their alliances. Oddly enough, that's not what I'm here for.

"Would you ever kill someone?" I ask him, as soon as he'll meet my eyes.

"No," he says immediately. "I'd never do that."

"Not even to win?"

He shakes his head, disgusted. "I'm _not_ someone who hurts people."

"Then why did you volunteer? Did you know that other boy?"

"Who, Pate?" he asks, with a look of contempt. "I mean, technically I knew him."

"Is he the reason you stepped up?" I ask.

"Wh—no!" Connor blinks. "Why are you interrogating me? I couldn't care less about Pate Reynolds."

"Then why did you save his life?"

At the notion of heroics, my district partner's expression brushes the line between annoyance and anger. "I didn't."

"You did. He might've died. You saved him."

"I didn't!" Connor snaps. "I saved myself!"

I hadn't realized that the two instructors from the adjacent stations had been listening in on our conversation, but the moment Connor raises his voice, their heads snap back to attention, as if his volume made them more afraid their eavesdropping would be discovered. The silence in our corner of the room gets heavy.

After a moment, I take a breath and break it. "From what?"

"From my dad," Connor says under his breath. Suddenly, the bruises on his arms and neck make a lot more sense. He seems to become more aware of them after he's said it, folding in his skinny arms against his stomach. He lets the silence settle again.

"Volunteering wasn't the only choice I had if I wanted to get away," he says, his blue eyes trained on knot tying table. "It was just the only one that didn't involve immediately dying. I figured I could at least enjoy a week in the Capitol before that happened."

I don't know what to say. He stands up before I have the chance to figure it out.

"Now I can't even do that."

He starts to walk away, and to my surprise, ninety-nine percent of my brain begins screaming at me to stop him, to get him to come back, and there's only one way I can think of to do that.

"I want you to ally with me," I say, trying to keep my voice level. It's enough. My district partner halts, turns around. He seems to be in the midst of another emotional first; it's the first time I've seen Connor look surprised without a generous layer of fear over the top of it.

"What?"

"You and me, and an alliance. Is that something you would want to do?" I mean it seriously, but he only looks confounded.

"You are _so_ …" He makes a frustrated gesture. " _Odd_. It's blowing my mind. Nothing you've said today has made any sense!"

I try to look unimpressed. "Would you answer my question?"

After another beat of confusion, he shakes his head vigorously. "No, Caph."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a bad idea," he says. "I'm not making it out."

"Not alone, you're not." I tell him.

"And not with you, either. Your best bet if you want to get out of here is to go find someone else who wants that, too."

I clench my fists so hard that my fingernails leave little half-moon imprints on my palms.

"You're the only one I know who wants what I do," I say. "Or at least, who doesn't want what I don't want."

"What are you going on about? I thought you were supposed to be smart."

"I _am_ smart," I say back. "Smart enough to know that I don't want to pay for survival with someone else's life."

He goes quiet.

"You don't want to, either."

He shakes his head, letting his hair fall into his eyes. "What, you want to go around not killing people together? That's your plan of action for the Hunger Games?"

"It's more of a plan of inaction," I tell him. "I'm still figuring out the details, but I think it's going to work."

"Well, when you put it like _that_ ," Connor says, through a thick wall of sarcasm. "How can I refuse?"

"It's going to happen whether or not you refuse," I tell him, annoyed. "And I don't see any better options for you that don't involve dying immediately."

There's a brief space after that during which neither of us says anything. Then, inexplicably, comes the third emotional first of the day: Connor smiles.

* * *

 _Brina Whaley / District Four Female_

"What did you do in your session?" The last thing I wanted to do today was talk to Ronan Safford, but over the last few days, he's learned to block my bedroom doorway at all the right moments.

He's not exactly fun to look at, my mentor, his face crisscrossed with scars from an incident with a barbed wire fence in his youth. The look hasn't improved with age, and he didn't even get those marks from the Games. That makes his face doubly uninteresting.

"I did what I said I was going to," I say. "Took up a machete and made use of those dumb rubber practice dummies."

Ronan mutters something under his breath about his lack of surprise. If he wanted to talk to himself, there's no reason why he shouldn't let me pass right on through. But apparently, that's not his game plan.

"You know, it doesn't take any amount of skill to hack something up with a machete," he tells me.

"Doesn't take any amount of skill to win the Hunger Games, either," I say. "You've met the rest of the victors. They all on par with your _expertise_?"

Ronan heaves a sigh and removes himself from my doorway after that. For a victor once famous for his temper, he never seems to want to have a proper argument with me. Maybe he's seeing a new therapist.

Beckett and Delta are discussing, you guessed it, the individual sessions in the living room when I come in. The two of them have been getting along strangely well here, probably because my district partner takes every opportunity to gush about how "interesting" and "historically relevant" a few specific Hunger Games were. The twelfth for Delta's victory, and the sixth for the death of Julius Saunders, the victor's older cousin and role model. He seems to be Beckett's favorite topic of conversation of late, especially around his mentor.

"I really learned how to throw a spear from rewatching the sixth Games," Beckett is saying. "The way Alder did it was the way they taught it in class, of course, but I went back a few times to study the way Julius did it, too, and it was different, the way he held his arm as he wound back the throw. Gave the spear more power on impact."

"Give me a break," I mutter. Ronan appears behind me in the doorframe.

"Give _him_ a break," my mentor says.

"Why? He's obviously just sucking up."

Ronan gives me a look. "Listen, Brina. There's no way he could have known Delta was going to be his mentor. It could have been me, or Mags, or Percival, or one of the others."

"Then how could he possibly know all of that about her Games? And about her cousin's Games?"

Ronan shrugs. "Genuine interest? It doesn't all have to be some ploy for attention. I mean, I think it's good that they found each other, since they're the only two tributes who ever saw anything great in Julius Saunders. I mentored the kid myself. If he was as special as they seem to think he was, he would have lived."

His words are so harsh, they stop me from wishing Delta and Beckett could hear them. In order to keep an even playing field, it's only fair that both sides should have a handicap. I have a mentor who thinks you can only win the Games if you're special. They have a dead role model. In some ways, that's just as useless.

The projector boots up, an image flickering to life on the wall in front of the couch. I claim a cushion next to Beckett, while Ronan pulls up a different chair. The resounding voice of Gordian Steinhart, longtime staple of Hunger Games programming and this year's special guest announcer, echoes around us.

 _I am honored to be presenting this year's tribute training scores! Let's begin, as always, with District One._

Paris's punchable face appears on the screen, and I find myself crossing my fingers for a training score that will wipe his grin clean off.

 _Paris Calloway, District One, with a score of ten!_

It takes me a minute to get out, "Good thing he can only use one weapon, huh?"

"Not a good thing," says Ronan. "He's your ally."

"And he's an excellent shot," Beckett says, his eyes on the screen.

 _Opal Ellmaker, District One, with a score of nine!_

"I definitely don't understand that," says Beckett. This one's got us both stumped.

"She stuck to the survival stations the whole day, every day." I frown. "How did she do that?"

"Obviously she's got a few tricks up her sleeve," remarks Delta.

 _Francis Brown, District Two, with a score of…_ Gordian looks down at his paper again. _With a score of eleven._

Something loud and nasty comes out of my mouth. "What do you mean, _eleven?"_

"It makes sense," says Beckett quietly. "Haven't you seen him shoot?"

"He's the one that left your alliance, isn't he?" asks Ronan.

"He'll be sorry for that," I swear. My mentor raises an eyebrow.

"With that score? I'd suggest staying out of his range."

 _Arden Borynski, District Two, with a score of nine!_

"Well, Arden's also a solid fighter, and we've got her on our side," Becket tries to look on the bright side.

"Arden's the ugliest girl I've ever seen."

"I don't know about that, baby." The four of us jump. Oddly enough, none of us noticed when Pacatissima walked in. "I respect a girl who can rock a suit on Reaping Day."

"Why are we even discussing her style choices?" Delta frowns. "This tribute scored a nine. I don't care if she walks into the arena wearing nothing but a bowler hat and galoshes. Don't you dare let your guard down around her."

 _Hans Santino, District Three, with a score of six!_

"That one spent most of training shadowing a few of the other tributes. I don't know what he did in his session," admits Beckett.

"What the hell are galoshes?" I ask.

 _Kelly Faulkner, District Three, with a score of nine!_

I look to Beckett for an explanation.

"Don't look at me," he says. "I have no idea how that happened. She has to be twelve or thirteen."

"Twelve," says Delta. We say no more.

 _Beckett McKenzie, District Four, with a score of nine!_

"Hey, same score as the twelve-year-old!" I say gleefully.

Ronan slaps my district partner on the back, and Beckett smiles.

 _Brina Whaley, District Four, with a score of six!_

For a moment, nobody says anything.

"Oh, honey, that's okay." I wonder if Pacatissima knows she's punishing me more by acknowledging it. "Plenty of victors have won with a six in training. A couple with even less, I think. I'll have to check—"

 _Leviathan McKinley, District Five, with a score of six!_

"Oh look, Brina," says Ronan, pointing at the screen. "He's eighteen, and you got the same score as him. Good job." I don't think I've ever wanted to punch my mentor more.

 _Emmeryn Fade, District Five, with a score of four!_

"I think we're about to enter the realm of the predictable," I mutter.

"Don't stop paying attention just because they're not from the upper districts," Delta says. "You've still got the volunteer, and the boy from Eight, and the girl with the knives you told me about."

 _Connor Allbright, District Six, with a score of three!_

"Well, _there's_ your volunteer," I say.

"He never really seemed like the Career type," Ronan deadpans.

 _Caph Schuyler, District Six, with a score of five!_

"Who's that?"

"She was a 'survival stations only' kind of tribute, I think," Beckett says.

"I see we're already talking about her in the past tense," I note. "Very appropriate."

 _Ptolemy Barrington, District Seven, with a score of seven!_

"Decent," says Delta.

"I think I saw him trying to recruit Francis," says Beckett. I almost snort.

"Probably had the same luck we did trying to get him to stay," I shrug.

"I hope so."

 _Avaline Bronson, District Seven, with a score of five!_

"She's got good aim, that one."

"Is she the girl with the knives you keep talking about?"

"No, she'll come later."

 _Chintz Merier, District Eight, with a score of eight!_

"Now, _he's_ got the look of someone who could cause you trouble in the arena."

"I doubt it," I say. "I didn't see him pick up a weapon in all three days of training."

"Maybe he doesn't need one," Beckett points out.

"And maybe he'll die before we can find out." I shrug. "Anything's possible."

 _Beatrice Reverend, District Eight, with a score of five!_

"That's not bad for a middle district tribute, either."

"It's not quite an eight, is it?"

"I don't think they're allies, those two. We'll probably be dealing with them separately."

 _Tybalt Egan, District Nine, with a score of five!_

"Fives all around, why not just give everybody a five?"

" _Sometimes_ , it's useful to know who to look out for."

"Is that sarcasm I'm detecting, Beckett?" I say with a hint of a smile. "I don't know about you, but all I'm getting from this is who _not_ to look out for."

Beckett sighs.

 _Perry Killam, District Nine, with a score of six!_

"Wonder what he did," I say.

" _She_ , Brina," says Pacatissima. "I wonder what _she_ did."

"I wonder what they did."

 _Harker Vail, District Ten, with a score of six!_

"Kind of a strong-looking guy," says Beckett, "Probably has some skills. There's just one thing I can't get my head around."

"What?"

"I didn't see him once during training."

 _Sophie Turner, District Ten, with a score of seven!_

"This one's the girl with the knives," I say gravely.

"Seven's not bad," Ronan confirms. "Look out for her."

 _Balziel Mendoza, District Eleven, with a score of four!_

"I thought he'd do better."

"I didn't, really. He and the boy from Twelve really played it safe in training."

 _Annona Sheply, District Eleven, with a score of six!_

"Another young one with a good score," says Beckett.

"She doesn't look particularly intimidating," I say.

Delta gives some semblance of a laugh. "They never do."

 _Gareth Corrigan, District Twelve, with a score of four!_  
"What do you know? Allies with matching scores."

"Can't say I didn't expect that."

 _Kenna Hume, District Twelve, with a score of three!_

"Is she the last one?" asks Pacatissima with a stifled yawn.

"I would hope so," Ronan stands up, stretching. "She is the girl from Twelve."

"Well, you know the Gamemakers." The escort brushes invisible dust particles off of her hoop skirt. "They love surprises. You know how the twenty-fifth Games went. I imagine they have all sorts of interesting twists in store for you all, as well."

God, I hope not.

 **AN: Thank you to calebbeers21 for Sophie, HogwartsDreamer113 for Beckett and Gareth, stuckathomebgs for Balziel, and Emrys Holmes for Connor.**

 **Update on Interviews: Have not started writing them yet. If you want a full interview for your tribute and haven't let me know yet, please do.**

 **Chapter Question: Out of all the tributes, which ones do you think have what it takes to make it far in the Games?**

 **#PateforPresident**


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